Forever May Not Be Long Enough
by DragonLadyRelena
Summary: Dusty meets one of her orphans and her memory is erased! What will Lance have to do to get her back and how much danger is he and the rest of the universe in? Danger, excitement, magic, and a happy ending . . . for some. Fifth installment of Dusty Saga.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Voltron, it would still be on the air. I'm borrowing the title of this one from a song as well. "Forever May Not Be Long Enough" by Live. For the sake of argument, I'm not borrowing any lyrics from the song, just the title, and am making no money off that either. With that torture over once again, enjoy the story!

**Prologue: Cyton**

The diner was lit like a runway and business wasn't exactly booming. Dusty sat on the sun-faded vinyl of the booth in the very back, an untouched cup of coffee in front of her, waiting. For what, she wasn't sure and the message hadn't specified, but it was important. That much she knew and she was curious about a friend she hadn't seen but thought often of over the last ten years. She looked around, her hands itching for a pad and pencil, so she drew in her head to pass the time.

There was a man with shoulders as wide as Montana sitting on a stool at the counter. His neck and arms were red from the sun, and his hair was shaved so close and sharp it looked like it could've sliced bread. He was wearing jeans and the pack of cigarettes he must have carried habitually in his back pocket had worn a white rectangle in the fading denim. He ate apple pi a la mode with all the concentration of a surgeon performing open-heart surgery.  
Behind the counter, the three waitresses wore cotton candy pink with their names stitched in white over their left breasts. One picked up a coffee pot from the warmer, breezed up to the pie eater and stood, hip cocked, as she topped off his cup.

There was a couple, midway down the line of booths, who looked like they'd been traveling all day and were now worn to nubs. They ate without conversation, but at one point the woman passed the man the salt, and he gave her hand a quick squeeze.  
The door opened and Dusty glanced up as Gideon Cameron walked in. Ten years ago, Gideon had been thin and lanky, with the loose-jointed, unfinished air of one who hadn't grown into what he one day would be. His chestnut hair, more red than brown, still had a slight wave to it and, more often than not, fell into hazel eyes prone to change colors as his mood changed.

Now, he was handsome. At a little over six feet tall, he had a lean, chiseled face, slanting cheekbones and a mouth both sensitive and determined. His eyes took in everything and filed it away. She knew he'd use the setting somehow, just as she would, but in a different way: she painted, he painted with words. He slid into the booth with a weary sigh. "Hey, Dusty," he said, mustering a smile.

"Rough day, Gid?" she asked quietly.

"You have no idea, Aunt Dusty," he answered, leaning his head back and closing his eyes, his smile fading.

"That bad, huh?"

"And worse." Silence fell for a few moments before he opened his eyes and studied her. "How can ten years go by and you don't look any older?" Dusty smiled.

"Just lucky, I guess. You don't look so bad yourself, you know." One of the waitresses joined them.

"You want anything, hon?" she asked Gideon, pulling out her pad.

"Coffee. Three eggs, scrambled. Bacon. Toast." His smile reappeared when Dusty stared at him. "I'm hungry."

"Anything for you?"

"Same thing. Thanks."

"How is it you never gain an ounce?" Gideon asked as the waitress left.

"Metabolism," she replied, laughing. "Mine runs like a rabbit." She rested her elbows on the table, laced her fingers and rested her chin on them. "How've you been, Gid?"

"Great. My last book sold really well. Thanks for your help, by the way. I had no idea that a mercenary's life was like that."

"It was no problem at all," she replied. "I read it, you know. It was great. Your best work yet."

"You say that every time," he laughed sheepishly.

"I mean it every time. You get better with every book you write." She sighed. "You didn't call me here to talk about books, Gid."

"No, I didn't."

"Why then?" He echoed her sigh and, pushing a hand through his hair, told her everything.

**Back on Arus**  
She buried herself in her studio. She used painting as an escape, an excuse, and as a channel for her frustration. Dusty knew the others were worried about her. She'd barely seen them, or anyone else for that matter, for three days. She wasn't ready for them yet, so she'd hauled up her biggest canvas from storage, and painted what she felt. The confusing mix of emotions and images took shape and color, and as they did, emptied out of her. She ate when she was hungry, slept when her vision blurred and painted like her life depended on it.

That's what Lance thought as he stood in the doorway. It was a battle between life and death, sanity and despair waged with a brush. She had one in her hand, stabbed at the canvas, sliced at it. Another was clamped between her teeth like a weapon held in reserve. Music boomed, bass and cello thundering violently like a battle cry. Paint was splattered on her shirt, her jeans, her bare feet and the floor. _A kind of blood loss,_ he thought, clenching his fists in his pockets.

She hadn't heard his knock over the blasting music, but looking at her now, he realized she wouldn't have heard him if the room had been silent and he'd shouted her name. She wasn't in the room: she was in the painting. He told himself to back up and close the door, that he was trespassing on her privacy and her work, but he couldn't. So he watched as she switched one brush for the other, then whipped at the canvas. Bold, almost vicious strokes, then delicate ones that seemed to hold a barely contained fury.

Her hair was sloppily pulled back from her face, held at the base of her neck with a piece of string. Strands escaped the loose tie and were ruthlessly whipped back behind her ear when they got in her way. Despite the breeze spilling through the windows, he could see the dark line of sweat riding up the center of her back, the damp gleam on the flesh of her arms and throat. _This was labor,_ he thought, _and not all for love._ She'd told him once she'd never suffered for art, but she'd been wrong, Lance realized. Anything that consumed so utterly came with pain.

When she stepped back, he thought she stared at the canvas as if it had appeared from thin air. Her hand fell to her side, still holding the brush for a moment before setting it on the table beside her. She took the one she'd clamped between her teeth and set it aside, then rubbed absently at the muscles of her arm and flexed her fingers. Lance started to ease back, but she looked at him, peered at him like she'd just realized where she was. She appeared exhausted, more than a little shell-shocked, and painfully vulnerable.  
He did the only thing he could think of. He walked in, crossed to her stereo and turned the music down. "You didn't hear me knock," he said, not looking at the canvas. He was almost afraid to. "Did I interrupt?"

"No." She left a fresh streak of paint on her cheek as she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. "It's finished." She hoped to Bastet it was, because she didn't have anything left to give it. It had finally, blessedly emptied her. She shifted to clean her brushes. "What do you think?"  
It was a storm at sea. Brutal, savage and somehow alive. The colors were dark and fearful- blues, greens, blacks and vicious yellows that combined like painful bruises. He could hear the wind howling, feel the terror of the woman as she fought to keep her boat from being swallowed by the towering waves. The water lashed, lightning speared out of the turbulent sky. He saw faces, just ghostly hints of them, in the feral clouds that spewed a sharp and angry rain. More, he realized as he was drawn in, in the sea. They seemed hungry to him. The single boat, the single woman, was alone in a primal war. In the distance, was land and light. There, far away, was a small piece of sky that was a clear and steady blue. There was home. She was fighting her way home.

"It powerful and . . . painful," he said finally. "You don't show her face, so I wonder, would I see despair or determination, excitement or fear? That's the point, isn't it? You want us to look and see what'd we'd feel if we were the ones fighting our demons alone."

"Wonder if she'll win?"

"I know she will. She has to get home; they're waiting for her." He looked at her again. She was rubbing her right hand with her left, still caught up in the painting. "Hurt?"

"What?" She looked at him then down at her hands. "They cramp when I work too long."

"How long have you been working on this?"

"What day is it? I lost track."

"That long." He wanted to know what had brought this on, and opened his mouth to ask but he remembered how she'd looked when she realized that she wasn't alone and shut his mouth again. She'd tell him when she was ready. "Why don't you go get a shower and some sleep?" he asked instead, picking up a rag and wiping the paint off her cheek.

"I don't think I can stay awake through a shower," she replied, barely suppressing a yawn.

"Come on, Dusty," he said, wrapping an arm around her waist. He ignored the paint being transferred to his clothes. "Let's go to bed."

"Thought you'd never ask," she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I don't think so, Duster," he replied, chuckling. "One foot in front of the other. That's the way."

"Should never have gone."

"Probably not," he agreed even though he had no idea what she was talking about, holding her up when she stumbled. "Here come the stairs, love."

"Wrote a book about a killer who offs himself at the end," she mumbled as they staggered down the stairs. "What kind of justice is that?"

"Obviously a mental midget. Here we are, home again." He turned the covers down with one hand and pushed her onto the bed. After he covered her, Lance turned to leave, but she grabbed his hand.

"Stay," she said when he crouched down at her side.

"I don't think that would be a good idea, Duster," he replied, standing up, his hand still in hers.

"I'm not going to ravish you." She paused and studied him. "I could if you wanted me to."

"I should go, tempting as that sounds."

"'Kay." She let go, rolled over and went to sleep. The cats ranged themselves around her, Neutron and Electron dropping off to sleep. Proton looked up at him.

_I'll watch her,_ she told him solemnly and he scratched her ears.

_I know you will, Proton,_ he said with a small smile.

_Good night, Lance._

_Good night, Proton._ He turned the lights off and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

_Dusty was walking in a dense gray fog, voices mixing all around her. A few of them were familiar to her, but she couldn't place them. One stood out above all the others. "A soldier doesn't care about anything but her mission."_

No! Not again! I don't want to be a mercenary!

"Soldiers don't have feelings," the voice continued, ignoring her cries. "They don't have emotions."

I can't! I won't do it! _It was no use. The words were slipping through her barriers like they weren't there._

"_A soldier has no time for friends," the voice said. "Emotions just get in the way of your mission."_

"_What is my mission?"_

Dusty was gone. The phrase repeated itself in his head as Lance looked around her room, the cats following, looking for something- _anything_- that would give a clue as to where she'd gone. There was nothing. Her few possessions were gone, and the bed was unmade. "She wouldn't have gone anywhere without you three," he said as Electron climbed his leg to his shoulder.

_Not willingly, no,_ Proton agreed, her tail and whiskers drooping in shame. She'd failed in her duty to protect her mistress. There was nothing worse for a familiar than that. Now, Dusty was gone and she didn't know where or why.

"What happened, Proton?"

_I don't know. You left and the next thing I remember was Dusty being gone._

"Neutron? Electron?"

_Nothing,_ Electron said, draping himself around Lance's neck.

_Not a thing,_ Neutron replied, shaking his head sadly. Lance sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"We won't find her unless she want to be found," he said finally. "We'll just have to wait for her." _You left me again, Duster. Why? What happened to you?_

**Earth: Paris, France**

Ambassador Vincent Ryan opened the door to his hotel room as the one across the hall opened. "Hello," said a voice that made him think of candlelight and satin sheets. The smile was a knee-jerk reaction to the smoldering brunette with laser blue eyes. His blood ran just a few beats faster, as the figure hugging red dress painted on her curves was meant to. He knew her type and appreciated it. Just as he appreciated the way she moved, the metronome sway of hips, as she crossed the hall on ice pick heels the same hot sex color as the dress. "Can you give me a hand with this? I'm just . . . all thumbs tonight."  
She dangled a thin gold bracelet from her fingertips, breathed in and out slow and deep, just in case he hadn't noticed the really lovely breasts straining against the slick red.

"Sure," he replied, taking the bracelet from her. There was nothing more flattering to the male ego than an obvious woman. He circled it around her wrist and enjoyed the way she shifted her body closer, angled in to tip her face back and look into his. He fastened the bracelet and wallowed in the come-and-get-me fragrance pumping off her skin. "Whoever you're meeting tonight is one lucky man."

"I'm not meeting anyone tonight," she replied, her bee-stung lips pouting prettily. "My date called a few minutes ago and cancelled on me. I'm going out anyway. You never know who you'll meet." She looked up at him through her dark lashes. "Would you like to come?"

"Sure," he answered, unable to think of a reason why not.

"My name's Marie," she said as they walked to the lift together.

"Vincent," he replied, smiling. She smiled back and pressed her lips to his for a brief kiss and laughed.

"We're going to get along just fine, Vincent," she chuckled as they stepped into the lobby tucking her arm through his. "Just fine." Blissfully unaware that he'd be dead before dawn, he prepared to enjoy himself, and he did, right up until the moment he died.

"I understand," Dusty said, relaxed because she knew her communication couldn't be traced and her voice came through on the other end as a man's voice. She'd learned early that most people were uncomfortable dealing- or talking- with a female assassin, so she'd modified her comm unit to make her voice male.

"The rest of the payment will be sent upon confirmation of the target's death."

"Very well." She turned the comm off and sat back. Killing the ambassador had been a little easier than her employer had thought, but only slightly more difficult than she'd anticipated. Making sure the security cameras in the hall outside her suite were facing the other direction when both of them were outside had been child's play. Spotting the bodyguards had been easy, as had making the ambassador believe they'd followed him, but turning their attention from the ambassador had been a little harder. Both had psychic powers, and were well trained, but neither one had her abilities or experience, so she'd sent them to the aid of man in the lobby who was having a seizure . . . courtesy of her, but she'd also made sure the man would have no lasting effects from the seizure. No sense killing someone who she wasn't paid to.

This next target would be easier, a bit of relief after Ambassador Vincent Ryan. When they'd gone back to the hotel, she'd followed him into his room and slept with him. It had been a very athletic encounter, all in all. When he'd fallen into a satisfied and exhausted sleep, she'd shot him twice in the back of the head. He'd never known what hit him, and she'd made his last moments very happy ones. If you had to die, there were worse ways to go than making love to a passionate woman, falling asleep and never waking up.

She'd erased all traces of her presence in his room and crossed the hall to her room where she repeated the process. Picking up her overnight bag, she checked out, dropping the murder weapon she'd used down an open storm drain.

Completely emotionless, ruthless and efficient. Among the elite assassins and mercenaries, she was known as the Ice Queen for those qualities. They also called her the Chameleon because she could become anyone, anytime. She was good enough that she could fool other assassins, security and bodyguards. Anyone who was looking for her wouldn't find her unless she _wanted_ to be found. She left clues, mostly because it amused her, but she always made sure they were dead ends. Most of the clues she left had a way of disappearing not long after they were found, anyway, so there wasn't much point in worrying about them.

Picking up her computer, she set about learning all she needed to know about the next target. She smiled, thin as a blade and cold as ice.


	2. Plots&Plans

**Disclaimer:** You guys hate this as much as I do. I don't own it, never have, never will. Only my characters are mine. I'm not making money and only wish I did.

"Lance, you'd better take a look at this," Allura said without looking over her shoulder as he joined her and the others in the rec room. They were clustered around the monitor, eyes glued in rapt attention.

"What is it?" he asked, sitting on the couch with the cats settling on the cushion next to him. "What's going on?"

"Shh! They're about to say," Pidge answered quietly as Keith turned the volume up.

"Ambassador Vincent Ryan was murdered in his hotel room last night," the newscaster began without preamble. "One of the maids discovered the body at nine a.m. local time, shot twice in the back of the head. The ambassador's bodyguards on that floor were found tied and gagged in an unused room, while the two in the lobby claim they were helping a man with seizures, a claim backed up by hotel surveillance and several other witnesses. Authorities say that this woman," a grainy picture taken from the security cameras in the lobby dominated the screen, "was the last person seen with the ambassador, but according to the hotel management, no one matching that description checked in." The newscaster droned on but Lance was no longer listening. He stood and left the rec room, not caring where he went. When he found himself in Dusty's studio, he was vaguely surprised. The cats were there, waiting for him.

"What's up, guys?" he asked as he wandered, glancing at canvases as he passed them. He found himself in front of the storm at sea. As he looked at it, he was sure there was something he was missing. There was some clue hidden in it that he'd missed before. He turned to the cats, each of them watching him. "You feel it, too?"

_Yes,_ they replied together.

"She mentioned going somewhere," he muttered to himself, looking around the room. "She met someone, a writer I think it was. Something about a man who kills himself before being caught by the police."

_Wait,_ Neutron said as he jumped off the worktable. _Here it is._ He padded over to her desk and pawed at a drawer. Lance opened the drawer and took out a book.

"Gideon Cameron," he mused as he read the cover before opening the book. "I don't think I've read this one ye--" He paused to swallow. "'To my Aunt Dusty, without whose help this book would never have been possible, and because of her, I am the man I am today.'" He lifted an eyebrow as he closed the book. "Warren. He might know."

_Good idea,_ the cats replied, nodding as one. He paused at the door, looking back at the painting again. Something he'd said the day before came back to him.

"Fighting our demons alone," he whispered as he walked back to stand in front of it once again. "She was fighting something, all right, but what or who was it? For it to come out like this, it must have disturbed her deeply, but she held it in . . . like always." He looked over at the cats. "She's not on some protective bent again, is she?"

_This seems a little more personal to me,_ Proton said, washing her shoulder in the way cats have when they've won their point . . . whatever it happened to be. Lance sighed in exasperation.

"I'll see what I can do."

Warren was almost as confused as Lance when he called. "I haven't seen her recently, Lance," he told him, shaking his head, "not since you dropped of Charlie."

"I see," Lance replied, running a hand through his hair. "Did you ever have a kid there named Gideon Cameron?"

"I remember him very well," Warren said, leaning back in his chair. "He was a quiet one, always a bit of a lone wolf for most of the time he was with us. He spent a lot of time on the sidelines, just looking and absorbing everything like a sponge." He smiled. "I think the only person he ever really talked to was Dusty. He'd always write such amazing stories, but he'd never let anyone but Dusty read them, so it came as quite a surprise when he became a writer."

"Does he ever come by?"

"When his schedule allows it." He paused, his smile fading. "Why?"

"Dusty's gone."

"Gone?"

"She left here two days ago. I have no idea where she went or why she left." Lance heaved a sigh. "She mentioned seeing a writer, but she didn't say where."

"It could have been Gideon or any other writer," Warren pointed out. "She has been known to help writers with research."

"How many of them dedicate their books to 'Aunt Dusty'?" Warren nodded in understanding.

"Gideon dedicates all his books to Dusty," he said with a sigh of his own. "She was the one who encouraged him to be a writer in the first place."

"Is there any way I can get in contact with him directly?"

"There is." Warren gave him an address. "You can either write or just show up on his doorstep."

"I'm hoping that won't be necessary."

"Me, too." Warren rubbed his eyes. "Let me know what you find out?"

"Of course, Warren. Thank you for all your help."

"It's for Dusty," he said as though that explained everything and perhaps it did. Warren signed off and Lance got up to pace for a moment before sitting down again. Dusty had told him not to call the NightWalkers unless something happened to her.

"We prefer that no one knows about who we are or what we do," she'd told him. "You have to have a very good reason to call on us. We're not a group of mercenaries, selling our loyalty to the highest bidder. _I_ used to do that, but no other NightWalker does. I make sure of that." She sighed. "Whatever happens, don't call on them unless something _really_ bad happens."

It was Lance's turn to sigh as he typed the numbers she'd given him. "_Nox noctis est nosri,_" he said when the line connected. _The night is ours._

Nicolas Le Blanc stood with his back to the wall, deep in shadow where he always seemed to be. He was part of the shadows and could disappear into them when he chose. He stood with such stillness he seemed to blend in with his surroundings, yet when he went into action, he exploded, moving so fast he seemed to blur. His face never seemed to give anything away, nor did his black eyes. "Powerful," he said, nodding toward the painting.

"That's what I told her."

"I didn't know she painted."

"Neither did we until a few months ago." They were quiet for several minutes, each trying to see something he'd missed in the painting before.

"Why have you asked me here, Lance?" he asked in his quiet way. He never had to raise his voice and he was always heard even in the loudest places.

"Things haven't been going very well," Lance answered, holding one of the bottles of brandy that Dusty had given him. He hadn't opened it yet, but he was giving it serious thought. They were up in Dusty's studio, facing the painting she'd done before she'd left. "Something's up."

"What?"

"It feels like something big is going to happen pretty soon."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, but it's going to be big." They were quiet for a long while.

"What do you want from me, Lance?" Nicolas asked into the silence.

"A favor."

"NightWalkers don't do favors."

"I know that and you know I wouldn't ask unless it was important."

"How is it you know about the NightWalkers anyway, Lance?" Lance sighed, setting the bottle aside. He knew they'd been leading up to that question and he'd thought about the answer for most of the night since he'd placed the call.  
"Dusty's gone." He said it quietly and with no embellishments. Nicolas tensed without seeming to move a muscle.

"Since when?"

"About three days ago."

"Any signs of foul play?" Lance shook his head.

"Dusty's cats don't remember much of the night she disappeared." One black eyebrow lifted at that statement. "Don't ask. I learned not to. These three are not your garden variety house cat."

"I guess they wouldn't be, not if they were around Dusty."

"You're right about that. Nothing about Dusty is normal."

"Good point." He shook his hair out of his eyes. "Any idea where she went?"

"One. She mentioned going to see a writer and I've got his address." He handed it over, and Nicolas memorized it quickly before passing it back.

"This isn't going to be easy."

"Easy isn't for NightWalkers."

"I see your mouth moving, but I swear it was Dusty that was talking." Lance laughed, but sobered quickly.

"Can you help us find her?" Nicolas was quiet for a minute, each second ticking by with agonizing slowness.

"We can try." He sighed heavily. "There's not a lot of information to go on, after all, and Dusty was the first NightWalker. She won't be found unless she wants to be."

"The things you learn about people," Lance muttered under his breath. This had to be the weirdest conversation he'd ever had, and that included getting drunk one night with a group of friends and talking about philosophy. The kind of things that were said was only understood by either the very drunk or the very young.

"I'll let you know what I find out."

"Thanks, Nicolas." He ran a hand through his hair and looked at the bottle. "If you like, I'll give you one of those bottles. Dusty gave me four of them."

"How old is it?"

"Bottled in 1787 and never been opened."

"That's powerful stuff." Lance nodded, thinking of the headache he'd had after just a few sips. "You're on."

"It's worth more than you'll ever make in your life." Nicolas raised his eyebrow again but coughed when Lance told him how much the bottle was worth. "Consider it an investment into your retirement."

"NightWalkers don't retire, Lance." He sighed. "I just hope I can find her."

"Us, too. Good luck."

"Luck is not a factor." With that, he was gone, almost as if he'd never been there at all. Lance sighed and went to find to Pidge to ask him if he could hack into Dusty's laptop.

When Dusty returned from a short supply run, her laptop was blinking. Setting down her bags of supplies, she sat in front of it and read the message that was on the screen, her eyebrows coming together slightly. Someone had tried to hack through her encryptions and get into her hard drive. Whoever it was had left a clear trail for her to follow, but she ignored it. Things like that, she knew, were just a decoy meant to throw her off the trail. She followed the other, subtler trail back to the source. "Interesting," she muttered when she found it. "Arus. Who's there?"

She couldn't remember ever being there except once, six or seven years ago, before Zarcon had attacked the first time, either enslaving the populace or sending them into hiding. Even though she knew about Voltron, and had even seen the robot once before, she didn't remember going there recently or any of her contacts being there, either. "This is certainly interesting," she said to herself. She shrugged, filing the information away for later use, before she began deeper research the next target.

"Anything, Pidge?" Lance asked, leaning against the door to Pidge's room. Pidge nodded, pushing a hand through his hair.

"She detected the hack," he said, looking up at his friend, "and followed the trail I left back here, but nothing else. She could've hacked _me_, sent some kind of warning, but she didn't do anything."

"Just followed the trail," Lance muttered and Pidge nodded again. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely sure."

"Thanks for trying, Pidge," he said, straightening and walking away.

"Hey, Lance--" Pidge called, but Lance didn't stop or even look over his shoulder. Pidge sighed heavily. He'd never seen Lance like this before and he hoped he never had to again. He wandered around like half of him was missing and he'd never find it again. The cats followed him around, as worried about Lance as the rest of them, keeping an eye on him. They'd better find Dusty soon. Pidge didn't know what would happen if they didn't, and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

**Earth: Manhattan, New York**

Sirens wailed in the distance, not unusual for this part of town. Dilapidated warehouses and apartment buildings with boarded up windows were eyeless sentries on either side of the almost empty street. What streetlights there were flickered, most of them having long since burned out, creating pools of darkness between them, perfect cover for shady business or the perfect hiding place for a thief or assassin. She'd use them to make her escape, but not for the entertainment portion of the evening.

A baby cried in the room under hers, while the neighbors down the hall seemed to be having their nightly fight. The walls were paper-thin, but it didn't matter: she wouldn't be there after tonight. The money she'd spent on the place meant little, and neither had the identification she'd used to obtain it: both had been enough to say she was desperate enough to pay almost three months rent in advance without complaint and remain anonymous. The landlord of the building had been happy to oblige, as long as she kept her music to below blasting and didn't leave any holes larger than her head in the walls.

The target, head of the Computer Crime Division of the FBI, favored a restaurant in the area. He'd also grown up here, part of a rough-and-ready crowd, and still was, just with more influential players and bigger consequences. She made it her business to know as much as possible about her targets, getting inside their heads and routines, before she picked the time and place of their deaths. Here, where he'd grown up, seemed fitting for him.

She waited for weeks, watching the route he took to and from the restaurant, and waiting for just the right time to eliminate him. The five times he'd been by already since she'd come hadn't been right: tonight seemed perfect. She watched as his car joined the flow of traffic, slowing to a stop at a red light. _Timing is everything,_ she thought to herself as she trained her silenced .45 on his car and pulled the trigger. Almost as soon as the car reached the far end of the block, the right front tire blew out. Admiring his driving skills, she watched as he pulled the car of the road without incident and get out to assess the damage.

Waiting until he'd jacked the car up and started working on the lugs, she moved to the sniper rifle she had on a stand at the window. "Back of the head," she murmured, sighting down the barrel. Scopes and sights were for amateurs and she hadn't been one for going on twelve years now. "Three . . . two . . . damn it." She adjusted and started again. "Three . . . two . . . one." Squeezing the trigger, she watched as he dropped like a stone to the scarred sidewalk, dead before he hit the ground. Calmly packing everything she'd used into a gym bag, another part of her cover, she walked out of the apartment. She left the key hanging in the lock. Anything and everything in it was disposable, and any thief was welcome to it. She made sure she nodded to the super on her way out, busy, distracted, and in too much of a hurry to exchange more cordial greetings.

Walking with the calm but hurried pace of a native New Yorker, she was some distance away from the target when she spotted a familiar form leaning against the wall of an abandoned building, all but hidden in the shadows between streetlights. "You did well, Georgie."

"High praise, indeed," she replied, leaning against the same wall. She reached in her pocket and dug out a pack of cigarettes and a battered Zippo. Lighting one, she held out the open pack to her companion, who took one and lit it.

"I thought you quit."

"Only when I'm working," she said with a shrug. "I plan on quitting for good soon." Silence stretched between them for several minutes, not uncomfortably.

"You smell of gunpowder. It's faint, but there." She shrugged again and blew out a stream of smoke.

"No one else will notice."

"I do."

"Only because you're the best." Georgie sighed. "I want out of this line of business. No assassin lasts long."

"We're the old ones of the group," her companion agreed with a slight sigh. "We've been doing this for such a long time, I don't think we can do anything else at this point."

"We could be good at anything. We have to be to blend in." She studied her companion. "I thought you got out of this a long time ago."

"I did. I'm trying to find the rest of us, the ones who've been in for a long time, and want out."

"You and I have been in the longest. Going on fifteen years." She blew out another stream of smoke. "You _trained_ me, watched over me my first few missions."

"I'm surprised you noticed."

"I learned from the best." She was quiet for several moments. "I mean it this time. I want out for good." Lightning fast, her companion drew a knife and drove it into her chest, feeling it hesitate on a rib before driving into her heart.

"The only way out is through death," her assassin said as she died, carrying her body to the ground. "You know that."

"Hunt well, Dusty," she murmured as the life left her eyes.

"Hunt well, Georgina," Dusty whispered in reply, fading into the shadows as if she'd never been there. She watched as squad cars, sirens wailing and lights flashing, sped by her hiding place to where Georgie's target was lying dead in a pool of his own blood. Dusty would leave Georgie where she lay, all the evidence on her, as she had left countless other assassins over the years. She finished the cigarette before flicking the butt into the street where it was washed down a storm drain, just like her former student's life.

**Back on Arus**

"James Giovanni, head of the Computer Crime Division of the FBI was murdered in New York last night, his murderer found five blocks away. She was already dead. She has been tentatively identified as Georgina Griffin, missing and presumed dead for the last twenty years after she ran away from a foster home when she was fifteen. The FBI has put every available agent on the case, but so far no leads have been found in identifying Griffin's killer. Sources have told us that Griffin had the murder weapon on her in a gym bag. No one in the neighborhood has come forward about witnessing the crime as yet."

"You don't think--"

_We don't know where she is, Lance,_ Proton said, though it was clear from her tone that she was thinking along the same lines he was. _I will admit it's possible, but why would she do that?_

"She _was_ a mercenary, Proton," he pointed out quietly, getting to his feet. "She told me she was out of that."

_Maybe this Gideon will know more,_ Neutron suggested, watching him pace. Lance nodded distractedly, pushing a hand through his hair.

"I think it's time to pay him a visit, guys," he said, turning to the cats.

_Don't forget to tell Keith where you're going,_ they cautioned as they stood as well to follow him out of the room.

"I won't." Keith, when Lance told him where he was going, wasn't surprised that he was asking and even offered to go along with him.

"You shouldn't go alone, Lance," he argued when Lance shook his head.

"I don't plan on it, Keith."

"Who, then?"

"One of Dusty's NightWalkers, and another immortal, Shang Yakuza."

"You're kidding." One look at his friend's face made him sigh. "You're not kidding."

"Not about this, Keith."

"There's nothing I can say or do that will stop you, is there?" Lance shook his head again. "Then I'll just say be careful. Bring her back if you can. Just don't get killed."

"I don't plan on it."

"Those who don't plan on getting killed usually do." Lance nodded and left the control room. "Good luck, my friend."


	3. Past, Present, Future

**Disclaimer:** Why do I have to this every chapter? (sobs and sniffles) Voltron isn't mine and never will be. I _do_ own Dusty, the Brown Lion, and any characters that aren't in the original story line. With that horrid torture over yet again, let's move on.

**AN:** For those who've asked, _doushenka_ is Russian. It means "my soul". (Fits Dusty, don't it?)

**Orpheus**

Warren met Lance and the cats at the landing pad, his hair dislodged from its usual ponytail by his hands. "Good to see you again, Lance," he said, glancing down at the cats. "Are they yours?"

"No, these guys are Dusty's," he answered with a slight chuckle. "They're not like most other cats, but they're pretty awesome."

"Still no sign of Dusty?" Lance shook his head. "I'm getting worried, Lance."

"You're not the only one." He followed when he led them to a waiting transport. "I wanted to stop here before I go on to see a couple more people," Lance went on, wondering just how much to reveal and how much Warren already knew. "You know more of Dusty's past than I do, Warren. Where would she go at a time like this?" Warren sighed and pushed a hand through his hair.

"You know Dusty, Lance," he replied, "she won't be found unless she wants to be." He turned to him. "But that wasn't what you were asking. When Dusty's troubled, she usually goes to Cyton and rides. It might surprise you to know that through various companies, she owns almost the entire planet."

"You're right, it would." _Just how many sides does Dusty have?_

"It's not something she throws around." Warren sighed again. "She's got more money than she could spend in a lifetime, more ships and planes than she could ever hope to fly, and there's nothing she loves more than giving her time to those less fortunate. I honestly can't see how she does it all."

"On most planets, there are twenty four hours in a day," Lance chuckled, "and she doesn't like to waste any of them."

"Whatever planet she's on." Lance studied him as they arrived at the orphanage. He looked older, certainly more tired than the night Lance had called to tell him Dusty was missing. If he thought back on it, he was looking worse then, too, but wasn't sure. "To my way of thinking, Lance, we probably know as much of Dusty's past as she's willing to reveal."

"Maybe different parts of it," Lance muttered moodily, climbing out after all three cats jumped out of his lap. "Or different versions of it."

"Well, maybe we should pool what we know and see what we can figure out."

"Sounds good."

"Oh, and Lance?" Lance turned to him just as he opened the door to the noise of over forty children, ranging in ages from four to seventeen. "Welcome to bedlam."

Dark as the night and fleet of foot, the wolf raced under a hunter's moon. She ran for the love of it, and she ran alone, through the grand tower of trees, the purple shadows of the forest, and the magic of the night. The wind from across the sea spewed across the pines, sent them singing songs of the ancients and spilling their scent into the air. Small creatures with eyes that gleamed hid and watched the sleek black shape bullet through the lacy layer of mist that shimmered down the beaten path.

She knew they were there, could smell them, and hear the rapid beat of their blood. But she hunted nothing this night but the night itself.

She had no pack, not mate but solitude. Restlessness lived in her that not even speed and freedom could quell. In her quest for peace, she haunted the forests, stalked the cliffs, circled the clearings, but nothing soothed or satisfied. As the path rose more steeply and the trees began to thin, she slowed to a trot, scenting the air. There was . . . something in the air, something that lured her out to the cliffs high above the restless sea. With powerful strides, she climbed the rocks, her grey eyes scanning, seeking.

There, at the topmost point where the waves crashed like cannon fire and the moon swam white and full, she raised her head and called. To sea, to sky, to night . . . and magic.

The howl echoed, spread, filled the night with both demand and question. With power as natural as breath. And the whispers that flickered back told her only that change was coming. Endings, beginnings. Destiny.

Again, the rogue black wolf with grey eyes threw back her head and called. There was more, and she would have it. Now the earth trembled beneath her paws and the water swirled. Far over the sea a single spear of lightning broke the blackness with a blinding blue flash. In its afterglow for an instant- a heartbeat only- was the answer.

_Love searches._

And the magic trembled on the air, danced over the sea with a sound that might have been laughter. Tiny sparks of light skimmed over the surface, bobbing, twirling to spin into the star-strewn sky in a gilt cloud. The wolf watched, and she listened. Even when she turned back to the forest and its shadows, the answer trailed after her. _Love searches._

As the restlessness in her grew, beat within her heart, she shot down the path, powerful strides tearing the fog to ribbons. Now her blood heated with the speed, and veering right, she broke through the trees toward the soft glow of lights. There the cabin stood sturdy, its windows shining in welcome. The whispers of the night fell quiet.

Bounding up the steps, silver smoke swirled, blue light shimmered. And wolf became woman.

Lance bolted upright in bed, the pull on his mind weaker now that he was awake. He'd been having a dream of a black wolf, howling to the moon on cliffs over a raging sea. He could smell the sea, hear the crash of it against the rocks and the wolf's howl still sounded above it in his head. Closing his eyes, he pushed both hands through his hair, holding it away from his face.

Something about the wolf had been familiar: he couldn't say what it was exactly, but there _was_ something familiar about the way the wolf looked and sounded and in the pull on his mind. Dusty's touch felt much the same. _Dusty, where are you?_ He sent the call hopelessly into the night, knowing she wasn't anywhere nearby and able to hear him. When he reached for her, there was only a blank void. _Come back to me, Duster._

_You should be asleep, Lance,_ Neutron said quietly, jumping from the window seat where he'd been sleeping in the moonlight to join him on the bed. Proton and Electron were wandering the halls on a search for mice and other vermin.

"I know, Neutron," he answered with a weary sigh.

_What was it?_

"Just a dream, kitten, nothing more." Lance lay back and was asleep moments later, Neutron keeping silent watch the rest of the night. Neutron didn't think it was a dream, but he kept his opinion to himself. Something strange was going on- it usually did if it involved Dusty- and he knew that they had to get to the bottom of it and soon. Neither Dusty nor Lance would last much longer. Each needed the other, whether they knew it or not, and without the little touches, the unconscious reaches that happened between grounds and psychics, they would both start to go insane, or Dusty's powers, despite her millennia of control, would go haywire, killing anyone in their reach. Not even Dusty knew how expansive her powers were, and as she aged, they continued to grow in number, strength and diversity.

_Being a familiar is harder than I thought it would be,_ he thought to himself with a sigh. Something about Dusty's disappearance was bothering him: if something had happened to her, why hadn't he and the others known? Who, other than Dusty, was strong enough to keep something, even if it was just a nightmare, from a familiar? Snarling silently, he curled into a ball on Lance's chest and, lulled by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, fell asleep.

Something was wrong, she could feel it. It festered deep inside her, an odd feeling she just wasn't able to shake. She felt like someone she knew, someone she cared about and needed, was close by. The feeling wouldn't leave, no matter how much she tried to distract herself. Exercising, practicing or researching her next target couldn't shake the feeling. Soon she'd have to track down the source and figure out what it all meant. Another part of her told her it wasn't going to be that easy.

With a sigh, she pushed her laptop away, unable to concentrate on her writing or on her research. She got up to pace, pushing a hand through her hair, changing colors in her agitation. Her mind kept reaching for another, trying to tune itself to his- _his?_ - when she wasn't paying attention or when she needed to concentrate the most. It had been getting worse after she'd killed the Ambassador, and now it was happening almost constantly. Each time it happened, she managed to bring her mind back under her control, but as soon as she relaxed, thinking it wouldn't happen again, it would wander again.

This was wrong: she needed all of her attention on her job. She couldn't even _hope_ to do her job if this kept happening. With another sigh, she sat on the edge of the bed, rested her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands. She rarely cried, but she felt a long, explosive crying jag coming on and it was getting harder and harder to keep up the ice-cold mask that was her trademark.

She was stunned to realize that she didn't care about the next target, that she could find dozens of ways to kill him without breaking a sweat or implicating herself, and none of them appealed to her at all. She could pass the job, and the hefty price to another, but once she took a contract, she stuck it through until the target was dead. Something was different this time, nothing she could really name or pin down, but something told her going through with this contract wouldn't be a good idea.

It wasn't like she needed the money. She had more than she'd ever need, and most of the businesses that she'd started over the centuries were highly successful. She could, in all honesty, shut down each and every business she owned, and she'd never run out of money. Even if she paid each and every one of her employees' unemployment, she'd still have enough to last her through several lifetimes.

Dusty sighed again, and stretched back on the bed. _This line of thought isn't getting me anywhere,_ she reprimanded herself, _and if _this_ is all I can think about so close to my target, there really _is_ something wrong with me. I just wish I knew what it was._

_Love searches._ The words insinuated themselves into her mind, reminding her of the nights she prowled the cliffs, howling to the moon and magic. Those words were the only answer for her, the only ones that mattered. Even though she'd been alone most of her long life, she'd never felt the loneliness as sharply as she did now. She could pretend she didn't for long stretches of time, but she wasn't able to ignore it completely. It was stupid to try. She knew it, but it didn't stop her for long.

Pushing all thoughts but her next target to the back of her mind where they belonged wasn't easy, but she managed after a quick, ferocious struggle, and got back to work. It wouldn't be easy to get to him, but she'd taken the contract and she'd finish it, eliminating the target, and then she'd disappear from the mercenary and assassin world for good. Nothing would be able to bring her back into it again, ever send her back into the world of violence and death.

_He'd done his job well, slipping into Dusty's exhausted mind and making her forget everything. It hadn't been easy, but well worth the effort. She was well out of the way, once again a mercenary, and it would be months, possibly years, before she shook off the compulsion. By then, his plan would have borne fruit, and there would be nothing she could do about it. Dusty would never lead the NightWalkers again, and they'd all be his to command. She might have been the first NightWalker, but she'd been away for too long. The psychics and grounds she'd worked so hard to save and train would turn on her, believing that _she_ was the cause of their pain._

_  
That idiot Darius had no notion of _true_ power, and he would be the first to meet his fate. He'd make sure that it took a long time, and each and every moment of it would be filled with pain._

_As powerful as Dusty was, she was weak compared to him. He'd only failed once, and he wasn't going to repeat the same mistake again. This time, Dusty would be fail in her attempt to stop him._

Earth 

Shang Yakuza looked up when his assistant, Keiko, knocked on the door. "Come in," he called, and she opened the door. "What is it?"

"There's a young man here to see you, sir," she answered, stepping inside at his gesture. She looked puzzled, as if she couldn't quite figure out what was going on and not liking the feeling one bit. "He said he's a friend of Miss Haff's."

"Let him in, Keiko," he said, getting to his feet. Keiko left, leaving the door open behind her. Lance entered with Proton, Neutron, and Electron following him. Shang flicked a thought at the door and it closed and locked behind Lance.

"Mr. Yakuza," Lance began, bowing a little at the waist, "my name is Lance, and something's happened that I think you should know about."

"How do you know Dusty, Lance?" he asked, gesturing for him to take a seat before he sat down again. "Hello again, little friend," he said to Electron, giving him a small smile. Electron gave him a feline smile in return before jumping into Lance's lap and curling into a ball for his afternoon nap.

"Dusty came to Arus almost a year ago, sir," Lance replied, "and though we don't know her as well as we'd like, she's our friend and we're worried about her."

"What's happened, Lance?" Shang asked, leaning back in his chair to study the young mortal across his desk. He looked like he wasn't sleeping well, and there was a shadow of beard on his chin as if he'd forgotten to shave for a day or two. His brown eyes were deeply troubled, something in them that Shang didn't want to examine too closely just yet. "Bear in mind that I can just take the information straight from your mind, but I shall refrain out of respect for Dusty." Lance swallowed hard, a nervous gesture that Shang was sure he wasn't aware of. Something was definitely up here and he was suddenly determined to get to the bottom of it.

"Dusty disappeared from Arus a month or so ago," he said, reaching down to pick up Proton when her ears and whiskers drooped. She curled against his chest, burying her face in his chest, her ear to the reassuring beat of heart. "She left in the middle of the night a few days after a meeting she had with Gideon Cameron."

"Why would you think she didn't leave of her own will?"

"She'd never leave her cats behind, sir." Neutron jumped to his shoulder and nuzzled his neck, offering him the comfort and support he needed to continue. "She hasn't responded to any of the mental calls either her cats or I have sent out."

"What happens when you reach for her?"

"Absolutely nothing. It's like she's not there anymore." Shang raised an eyebrow, but he knew Lance was telling the truth. After more than five thousand years, he knew when someone was trying to lie to him, but Lance was being completely honest with him. He knew more than he was telling, of course, but he was trying to figure out just how much Dusty'd told him and how far he could trust him.

"There's more, isn't there?" Shang asked quietly, using none of his gifts on Lance. He was a psychic and he'd know if Shang started poking around in his head for more than he would willing reveal. If Shang expected him to trust him with the information, he'd have to take the first step. He waited patiently while Lance studied him, not sure what he was looking for, but he must have found it because he nodded and began telling him everything that had happened. Shang asked questions, but mostly he just listened and heard the truth ring in Lance's voice, thoughts and expressions. "Do you still have the contact she gave you?" he wanted to know when Lance was finished.

"Here," Lance said, digging the paper out of his pocket and handing it to Shang, who looked it over. "I've called him and he's got some of Dusty's people working on it, but so far they haven't found anything."

"They might not be looking in the right places," Shang muttered to himself, handing the paper back to Lance. "What makes you think I can help?"

"Dusty came to you," Lance explained, "after she learned there were other immortals out there. Adrian Stephens came to a party on Arus and they talked for a long while."

"Adrian's an idiot most of the time," Shang interrupted, an indulgent smile lighting his face for a moment, "but he was right to go to her. She had a right to know she wasn't alone out there." He sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. "As she told you, she and I talked for some time, about anything and everything that came to mind. Immortality and even shared times we lived through, or didn't, as the cases were. She had many questions, and even answered almost all of mine. Dusty's . . . different than other immortals."

"How's that?"

"Shapeshifting and magic," he explained, frowning slightly. "I've asked some other immortals if they can do either, and they either only have a minor talent for it or none at all. Most of us has dabbled or played around with the ideas of both, but only Dusty has mastered it. Her psychic powers are far beyond any I've ever met, rigidly controlled and she wields them with ease. It doesn't seem possible that she'd just . . . leave, not without a fight."

"What should we do?" Shang took his time answering, Lance watching him as if the wrong word would shatter him. Dusty was important to him, and as more than just a friend, and he was sure the reverse held true for her.

"Go back to Arus, Lance," he suggested gently, running a hand through his hair again. "She may come back there."

"What are you going to be doing?"

"Looking for Dusty." He stood with Lance after he'd nudged all the cats off him. "I'll call you as soon as I find anything, no matter how small."

"I'm not leaving while you look for her," Lance stated adamantly, shaking his head.

"Lance, Dusty has powers that I doubt even she knows about. If she really has forgotten you and everything that's happened in the last year, getting close to her now just might get you killed, either by her hand or someone else's. She was right when she said someone could use the fact that you know her against her. I'm asking you, for her sake as well as your own, that you go back to Arus and wait for me to contact you."

"All right," Lance murmured and with a polite bow Shang returned, he left, the cats again trailing after him. He could argue his safety with Dusty until he was blue in the face, but something about Shang made Lance give in with only a token protest, more instinctual than out of any real desire to win the fight. Lance knew Keith and the others were starting to worry about him, and he was just as worried about himself. Every time his mind reached for hers, there was nothing. He knew now that it was because the person she was when she was with him wasn't there anymore, but he kept reaching for her, hoping for even the slightest sign that she was fighting her way back to him.

When he got back to the _Dragon Lady,_ one of Dusty's ships, he found a message from Nicolas waiting for him. "Lance, this isn't a secure channel," he said simply, "so I'm going to make this short. Please contact me as soon as you receive this. I'll be waiting." Lance immediately called him, running the call through several lines of encryption that Pidge had taught him before he left.

"What is it, Nicolas?" he asked as soon the NightWalker picked up. "Have you found her?"

"Possibly," Nicolas replied after making sure the call was secure. "Where are you?"

"Earth," Lance answered, the cats jumping into his lap when he sat down. "I just a rather interesting visit with Shang Yakuza."

"What's he in all of this?"

"A friend of Dusty's."

"How'd it go?"

"Well enough. I'm on my way back to Arus." Nicolas said nothing for a moment.

"Something going on here, Lance, something not even the NightWalkers can find out. The only one who might know is Dusty."

"So we're in trouble."

"Possibly big trouble," Nicolas agreed, pushing a hand through his hair. "I'll let you know if I find out more."

"Thanks, Nicolas." Nicolas nodded and the screen went dark. With a sigh, Lance started the ship's engines, and entered Arus' coordinates into the autopilot. The ship would get him back, and he knew he'd sleep most of the trip back. He'd leave most of the heavy digging and intrigue to Shang and Nicolas. Right now, he was exhausted and in need of a decent night's sleep.

The only thing he could do now was wait.


	4. Reunion?

**Disclaimer:** It's still not mine. : cackles over a bubbling cauldron: I'm working on it, though.

**AN:** Again, special thanks go out to MustangAce. Reviews from you are great to see in my inbox. I appreciate each and every one.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mars: Demos Cantina 

Need crawled through her body and pounded out a rhythm in her mind. Music seethed and roared, filling the large bar, an edgy, compelling melody as dark and driven as she was. The notes were ripped from deep within her soul, moved through her fingers to the guitar cradled in her arms as she might cradle her lover. The music was one of the few things that reminded her she was alive and not an empty shell.

She could feel the stares, although she never looked up. She could hear the breathing of the crowd, the air moving through lungs like the rush of a freight train. She heard blood ebbing, flowing in veins, and even the thoughts of the band behind her.

They whispered. Hundreds of conversations. Secrets. Pickup lines. The things whispered in bars under the cover of music. She heard every word clearly as she sat on the stage with the young, enthusiastic band she was jamming with. She heard the whispers of men as they discussed her. Tempest. Lead guitarist and singer for the Valkyries. They wanted to bed her for all the wrong reasons, and she wanted them for reasons that would have terrified them.

The song ended, the crowd roared, stomping and clapping and yelling approval. Her fingers were already picking up another melody. Moody, compulsive, the band taking its cue from her. She sang, her voice haunting, beckoning to someone, her voice impossible to forget or ignore. Her fire red hair flashed in the lights, looking hot to the touch and smooth as silk and her eyes were hypnotic, bottomless pools of emerald green.

She beckoned to the one who could save her, give her back the missing half of her soul. She needed him as much as she needed the next breath to go on living. _He_ was the only one who gave life any kind of meaning. Laughter. Tears. All the things that normal people took for granted, but things she had long forgotten existed. No one was close to the elusive singer, each tour the band was different, and she gave no interviews or revealed anything personal about herself. She'd always done what she liked, and despite all the trends in the music markets, every album she made went platinum and each concert sold out.

The door to the bar opened, bringing in a cool breeze that slightly dispelled the smell of too many bodies in to small a space. A strange smell in the air made her lift her eyes, though she kept her head bent and she sang on. _Gunpowder and danger._ She sighed a little, and reached out to touch the minds of the three men who'd just walked in.

They had strong blocks, but she managed to get around them easily enough. With another sigh, she learned they'd been sent to kill her, the latest target of a "vampire" hunting society. Her unusual habits had drawn their attention, and like all fanatical people, they believed they were on a God given "mission" or that they knew who was a vampire and who wasn't. Their definition of what made a vampire came straight from books, movies, and their own fears of people who were different.

Ending the set, she stood and set her guitar aside, well out reach of an avid fan or a slick fingered roadie. As soon as she stood, the band began making up for its lack of talent with volume. Giving the crowd a quick sweep with her eyes, she left the stage and continued out the door, needing the fresh air and knowing that the "hunters" would follow her out. She didn't want to cause a scene inside the bar that could get innocent people hurt or killed. "Come on, gentlemen," she whispered, her voice a black magic weapon she wielded easily, drawing them away from the bar and into an alley not far away. "I know you came to see me, so why don't we talk where there aren't too many people around, hmm?"

Two of them stood as tall or a little taller than her own six-one, while the other was shorter by several inches. All of them had barely concealed bulges under their jackets, and she shook her head at the silver crucifixes around their necks. "You've come to kill me, haven't you, boys?"

"Yes," the short one answered and the other two nodded. "You're a vampire."

"Have you ever met a vampire, gentlemen?" she asked, her tone implying only mild curiosity. "Do you have any idea how much power one of them wields?" She reached out and touched each crucifix in turn, making each man shake in terror. "Garlic? Do you think it bothers me?"

"Doesn't it?" one of them replied, stalling for time. She smiled at him and shook her head.

"Oh, dear," she said, her voice lowering still further. All three men strained to hear it, wanting her to go on speaking for all time. "You seem to have gotten in a little over your heads, gentlemen," she told them, reaching deep into their minds, planting a compulsion in each mind. Tossing her hair, suddenly black, over her shoulder, she turned away and left the men there. She was almost back to the bar when the first shots rang out from the alley.

Only one man would survive, and he'd tell the police how he and his comrades had tormented and tortured innocent people, and had finally target Tempest and killed her in the alley. He'd been the voice of dissention and the other two had tried to kill him. When it hadn't worked, they'd set fire to themselves and Tempest's body. Nothing would be left but ashes and she'd be long gone before the last man would hang himself in prison, unable to bear what he'd done to hundreds of people.

She sighed and shook her head as police cars began arriving on the scene, continuing her leisurely walk along the street and back to the bar to pick up her guitar. _All to easy,_ she thought, hailing a cab to get to her hotel and check out. Her sudden and tragic "death" would probably send album sales through the roof. She chuckled at that, and was still smiling when she checked out of the hotel.

"We're sorry your stay was so short," the desk clerk said as she printed out the bill.

"I did what I came to do," she replied, shrugging one shoulder. "It would be pointless if I stayed longer than I need to, even in this beautiful hotel."

"I understand." The clerk handed her the bill and after a quick glance to make sure everything was in order, she signed it. "I hope you'll come back and stay with us again soon."

"I might just do that," Dusty answered noncommittally, and lifting her bag and guitar case, walked back out to the cab. She was going to miss Tempest, as she so enjoyed traveling and singing. _Oh, well,_ she told herself, reminding herself that Tempest had been a cover. Useful as it had been, she couldn't very well continue to use it after this.

Earth: Northern California, Classified Location 

Shang had no idea why Nicolas had asked to meet him at a cabin in the mountains of northern California, but here he was, driving up a curving cliff road, and wondering how he'd gotten roped into this. He realized that it really didn't matter. The only thing that did was that they both wanted to find Dusty. The sun had set long ago, the moon and headlights his only light as he neared the peak.

He almost missed his turn, the long drive almost completely hidden by the trees on both sides. As he drove up the drive, Shang saw that his definition of a cabin and Dusty's were entirely different things. "Wow," he murmured as he braked slowly, feeling his jaw drop to his knees.

"And then some," Nicolas commented, appearing by his car door without a sound. Shang got out of his car and gave the NightWalker a long study.

"You're very good," he said, nodding his head in rare approval for a mortal. "Not many could sneak up on me."

"I was trained by the best," Nicolas replied, shrugging one shoulder. "It may be summer, but it still gets cool at night at this altitude." Shang hadn't really noticed the weather because he was too busy staring at the cabin. It was built of wood- a soft, aged wood that glowed warm in the dappled moonlight. But it was far from little. Multileveled, with interesting juts of timber and windows, it rested majestically amid the dripping pines. Decks, some covered, some open, promised a breathtaking view from any direction. The metal roof glinted, making him wonder how it would be to sit inside and listen to rain falling. Following Nicolas, he stepped inside, and when he switched on the lights, Shang felt his jaw drop again.

The main room at the cabin's center was huge, an open gabled structure with rough-hewn beams and a charming granite fireplace. Thick, cushy furniture was arranged around it. Its freestanding chimney rose up through the high, lofted ceiling. Above, a balcony swept the width of the room, keeping with the theme of open space and wood. In contrast, the walls were a restful blue, accented with dark and gleaming built in shelves and many-paneled doors and windows. Every surface gleamed and sparkled, as if even one speck of dust was a sin against man and nature.

"Dusty designed this place," Nicolas was saying, striking a match and setting it to the tinder waiting in the fireplace. "She doesn't use it often, but when she does-- Damn." The match went out before it caught.

"Allow me," Shang said with a small smile, flicking a thought at the tinder. The wood caught, a small flash the only warning Nicolas had to step back before being singed.

"Handy trick," he observed with a lifted brow, making Shang laugh.

"It _does_ have its uses." He sat in an armchair in front of the fire. "So what did you want to talk about?"

"There's something going on," Nicolas told him, leaning against a wall. Too restless to sit, and too self-contained to pace, he stared intently into the flames, as if hoping to find answers there. "Something most, if not all, the NightWalkers aren't aware of."

"What does that have to do with this?"

"Nothing, but then again, possibly everything." He heaved a small, soft sigh. "That's now what I asked you here to talk about. I meant to ask you about Lance."

"What about him?"

"I wanted to get your impression of him. We've both talked to him and I'd like to know what you thought." Shang was quiet for some time, gazing into the flames himself. There was a flicker, and just for an instant, he thought he saw her in the flames. He blinked and it was gone as quickly as it came.

"He's worried about her," he began, leaning back in the chair that gave beneath him like butter. "He's honest enough about that, and leads me to believe that he had nothing to do with her disappearance." He paused, steepling his fingers under his chin. "He's got enough psychic talent to be a NightWalker himself, but he's happier where he is for now."

"He's a ground," Nicolas stated, and for long moments Shang didn't reply.

"I think he knows," he murmured, working it out in his mind as he spoke, "and that is only one of the things that has him so worried. Dusty's missing, and that's part of it, but she's not _there_, if you follow me."

"Like there's a void when he reaches for her." Nicolas nodded in confirmation. "I've sensed it myself when I reach for her."

"He thinks she's gone back to being a mercenary again." He said it quietly, but it had an unexpected effect: Nicolas was off the wall and halfway across the room in a single movement, shoving both hands through his hair, filling the air with ripe blue curses. Shang had never expected the NightWalker to lose control, and he was amused and impressed. Even when the hair on his arms began to stand, Nicolas was still in control enough to keep the power from swelling the walls, but it was close. The fire roared, and the metal frame bent sharply inward before swelling out again. Lightning flashed and thunder shook the earth beneath them, one tremor after another, sounding like there was a battle raging outside.

"Even with everything that's happened so far," he growled, raking Shang with eyes that seemed to reflect the fire a thousand times, "_nothing_ should have pushed her that far, _absolutely nothing_!" Pacing back and forth, his footsteps shaking the entire cabin.

"Nicolas, if you don't calm down, you'll bring the whole place down on us," Shang pointed out quietly. "I can't die, but you can. Despite how mad you are right now, if the place comes down, you'll die and there will be nothing I can do for you. How are you going to find Dusty if you're dead?" It had the desired effect of getting Nicolas to stop in his tracks, close his eyes and work at regulating his breathing. Slowly, so very slowly, everything returned to normal, the sudden thunderstorm disappearing, and the heat in the room dropping. When he opened his eyes, they were calm again, deep, almost fathomless pools of obsidian.

"You're a ground," Nicolas told him, shaking his head a little. "Not mine, but every ground can calm a psychic. Only the other half of a bond like that could have controlled it."

"What's a ground?" Shang was genuinely intrigued: he'd heard Lance refer to grounds, but had never thought he'd be one.

"When a psychic gets angry or upset, their powers increase exponentially," he began, leaning back against the wall again. "All that power has to find somewhere to go, and if there's no more room in the psychic's body, it will start doing damage to the immediate area." He chuckled a little. "I almost burned down her entire mansion before she found out that she could draw the energy from me and disperse it. She didn't go very far away from me for a while, and after a few months, we found a few ways to control my powers."

"She told me that a week or so after you found her, others started doing the same."

"Each and every one of them was in worse shape that I was." He sighed. "Then she experimented on ways to shield us from everyone else. Eventually, we found a couple techniques that worked, and now we're expanding that to as many psychics as we can find." He looked at Shang, and there was something strange in his eyes Shang wasn't ready to define. "You want to know something strange?" he asked and Shang nodded slowly. "Most people that were committed to asylums for hearing voices weren't hearing voices. They were hearing other people's thoughts. They weren't crazy, just psychic."

"I worked in an asylum for almost twenty years," Shang commented quietly, barely audible over the crackling flames. "Let me tell you, you meet some interesting people there. Quite a few psychics were there, and we had some conversations and tried a few experiments. Would you believe that they all escaped and led quiet, happy lives?"

"You helped them escape, didn't you?" Shang just smiled, but to Nicolas it looked more like a smirk. "All right, we got a lot more than off topic here."

"But an interesting side trip, all in all," Shang joked, making Nicolas laugh, but he sobered quickly. "Now, what about Dusty being a mercenary had you almost bringing the cabin down on our heads?"

"She told me stories of the life she led before I found her," Nicolas answered, "and it wasn't pretty. When the NightWalkers first formed, people tried to hire us as mercenaries, but Dusty wouldn't allow it. Many of us were still unstable and not in complete control of our powers, or too sensitive to function outside the walls for an extended period of time. I don't know how she managed it, but we all ended up under her protection and when we were attacked by a group that wouldn't take no for an answer, she defended us, somehow keeping us all from being used as weapons." He sighed again. "We're more like a group of undercover police, Secret Service, what have you. We find out who the really bad guys are and make sure they're brought to justice. Not many people outside the NightWalkers know who we are and we know most of them. Dusty's rules," he added with a slight chuckle.

"So she won't go back to being a mercenary because of all of you?" Shang asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Many of the NightWalkers think so," he admitted, "but I know it goes deeper than that. Dusty has more power than she knows what to do with, and has often used them for many reasons. She wanted out of being a mercenary, tired of killing people to make money. Other than the game of it, I think, she grew bored with it. She's smarter, faster, and more lethal that anyone I've ever known." He studied Shang for a moment. "You've got the same vibe she does, the same kind of aura. What's Dusty to you?"

"A friend," Shang replied honestly. "Who, inside the NightWalkers, would be able to do something to Dusty? Perhaps make her forget who she was and what she's done since she quit being a mercenary."

"No one that I know of," Nicolas told him, pushing a hand through his hair in agitation. "All the NightWalkers know that Darius and Dusty don't get along. Dusty trusts him to a point, but he's trying to take advantage of her. He's greedy, power-hungry, and stupid with it."

"Not the biggest asteroid in the belt then." Shang filed the information away for later, knowing it could come in handy.

"Not even close," he confirmed with a wry chuckle. "Personally, I though Dusty should have left Julius or even Lucian in charge."

"Why not you?"

"Too much stress for me." Shang thought of the storm, the fire, and the tremors, and nodded slowly. "Even Falcon or Jacques would have done a better job than Darius."

"She probably has her reasons."

"It's easier for her to keep an eye on him if he thinks he's at the top." He shrugged one shoulder. "That's what she told me when I asked. It's not easy to run the NightWalkers and our more . . . legitimate business all at once." A little at a time, Shang got more information from him, using casual questions and simple observation. Nicolas's face revealed more than he thought it did, and Shang read every expression, every inflection of a word.

Nicolas knew what Shang was doing, and was doing the same to him. _You can learn a lot about people by just watching their faces while they talk,_ Dusty had told him once, _and it doesn't always matter what they're talking about._ He put that to good use, learning more about Shang than he would have otherwise. It was almost as hard as reading Dusty, and she was the most inscrutable person he knew. Nothing would get by him, and there'd be no pity for the idiot who tried.

"When did you find her?"

"I was thirteen," he answered with a sigh and took a chair facing the fire. "My parents died when I was five and I was put in an orphanage, where a year later I was adopted. It seemed all right for a while, then things went bad."

"When did you know you had powers?"

"I was four. I'd climbed a tree and dropped my favorite toy. I reached for it as it fell, and it just . . . stopped then came back to my hand. I was surprised and more than a little scared. I wanted to be like my friends, be normal, you know?"

"Perfectly."

"I told my mother about it," he continued, gazing back across the years that had led him to where he was. "She told me that my gift made me special, and that using the gift was normal for me. My parents taught me to control it, as best as a child could, but later . . . it didn't seem to matter how much I tried, I just couldn't keep it under control. After five years of objects, no matter how heavy, flying through the air and catching whole rooms on fire, I knew I had to get out of there or I'd kill someone or myself." He pushed a hand though his hair. "I spent two years trying and failing to get out of there, and finally, on the day I turned thirteen, I escaped and found Dusty.

"I nearly set her and everyone around us on fire," he chuckled wryly, "and that was just the beginning. After she got the whole story out of me, we went to work trying to find ways to help me control my powers." He looked over at Shang again, his eyes haunted by shadows. "She became my mother all those years ago, and that's part of the reason I almost dropped the cabin on top of us when you said that she'd become a mercenary again."

"I see." They spent the better part of the night in silence, watching the fire and trying to think of where Dusty might be and what might have driven her back to being a mercenary.

_When were they going to understand that they'd never find him? He was invisible, invincible. Nothing and no one could touch him. He wouldn't stop until he had what he wanted. Dusty would pay for turning on him, turning him away from the NightWalkers, and she'd suffer slowly for everything._

_Nothing he'd ever do would be more satisfying than that . . . and he couldn't wait to get started. He didn't know where she was at the moment, but he'd find her and then the games would begin all over again._

**AN:** Whew! That chapter took forever to type out. Sorry that it took so long to update, but it's been one hectic time in my house. Between babysitting and trying to find parts for my computer so I could keep working, I haven't had a lot of time for writing. Thanks for reading. Hopefully the next chapter won't take so long to work up. Wish me luck!


	5. Soldier of Fortune

**Disclaimer:** Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble. ::cauldron explodes with a cloud of smoke:: Guess I shouldn't try magic to make something mine. Oh, well. ::mumbles:: Maybe there was too much dragon's breath in there . . .

**NightWalker Creed:**

We are the NightWalkers, we live in the shadows,

The sea, the earth, and the air are our domain

No fallen comrade will be left behind

We are loyalty and honor bound

We are invisible to our enemies and we destroy them where we find them

We believe in justice and we protect those unable to protect themselves

What goes unseen, unheard and unknown are the NightWalkers

There is honor in the shadows and it is us

We move in complete silence whether in jungle or desert

We walk among our enemy unseen and unheard

Striking without sound and scatter to the winds before they have knowledge of our

Existence

We gather information and wait with endless patience for that perfect moment to

Deliver swift justice

We are both merciful and merciless

We are relentless and implacable in our resolve

We are the NightWalkers and the night is ours

Arus: Castle of Lions 

With the exception of Dusty's cats, Lance was alone in the rec room, the news droning in the background, but he wasn't listening to it. Proton, Neutron and Electron were trying to help him figure out where Dusty might be. "I don't know about Zalaria, guys," he said, shaking his head. "From what I understand, Zalaria is pretty closed off to humans most of the time."

_That didn't stop Dusty from going there,_ Electron pointed out, flicking his tail under Neutron's nose.

_Knock it off, kitten,_ Neutron warned, putting a paw on Electron's tail. _The problem is that we don't _know_ for sure where she's gone. There's not a single clue to point us in the right direction._

_That might help,_ Proton broke in, getting everyone's attention. _Look._

"Reclusive singer Tempest has been killed tonight," the newscaster announced, a picture of Tempest from her latest concert appearing behind her. "According to our sources, she was targeted by a group of supposed vampire hunters, and they tracked her to Mars, into the Demos Cantina, where she was relaxing before her next concert. Three men followed her out of the bar and dragged her into an alley where one witness reports that they shot and killed her then set her body on fire. One of the hunters was almost killed by his comrades when he argued that they shouldn't kill Tempest, and he further claims that when they set fire to her body, the other two went up in flames."

_We can't just go running to Mars,_ Proton said quietly as the newscaster droned on about details. _Shang asked us to wait here._

"We can tell him our suspicions though, kitten," Lance replied, getting to his feet. "Come on. If anyone can find out more about this, he can."

_Do you know where he is?_ Neutron asked, stretching before jumping lightly off the couch.

"No, but I also know someone who might."

**Earth: Northern California, Classified Location**

Nicolas looked up when his computer beeped. Stepping over to it, he pressed a few buttons, one eyebrow lifting when he read whom the message was from. "I think it's for you," he said, a small smile curving his lips. Frowning, Shang stood up, and crossed the room to Nicolas.

"You might be right," he muttered as Nicolas quickly typed in a couple commands. "Encryption?"

"Just in case," Nicolas replied, shrugging one shoulder. Lance's face appeared on his computer, Dusty's cats in his lap.

"I never expected to see you two together," he commented, enough of his humor returning for that horrible joke.

"What is it, Lance?" Shang asked, ignoring Nicolas's chuckle behind him. "Did you hear something?"

"I suppose you could say that," he told them and ran through what he knew and heard on the news that night. Both Shang and Nicolas interrupted for questions, almost on top of each other or the same questions at the same time.

"What makes you think that Dusty was Tempest?" Nicolas asked, pushing a hand through his hair.

"A hunch," he answered with a shrug, "but one that might be worth investigating a little. No one really knows much about Tempest. She never granted interviews and every time she toured, she used a different band. They've even interviewed each band she used and none of them knew anything personal about her: where she liked to hang out, whom or even if she dated, if she was married, how old she was, nothing. It like her entire life before the band didn't exist and her personal life was classified top secret and no one had clearance." He sighed and pushed a hand through his hair.

"Look, even if it doesn't go anywhere, it may be a lead to wherever Dusty might be."

"There's a NightWalker or two on Mars. I'll call them and see if they'll look into it."

"Thanks, Nicolas," Lance said, and the cats meowed from his lap. "We all appreciate it."

"It's not just for you, Lance," he replied quietly, "it's for the NightWalkers, and all of her friends and family." Lance nodded his understanding, then the screen went black. Nicolas started punching numbers into his laptop, his fingers moving faster than Shang could follow, before stepping back. For a few moments there was no sound except the fire crackling behind them, then a quiet beep. Shang lifted an eyebrow when he realized there would be sound but no picture.

"Nicolas, what is it?"

"Lucian, I need you to look into something for me."

"Whatever you need, Nico."

"Tempest."

"The singer?"

"The very one. She was killed tonight. I need you to find out all you can about it and the people who did it to her."

"You got it." After another quiet beep, Nicolas went back to typing numbers, his fingers flying over the keyboard again.

"Honestly, Nicolas, what could you want at this time of the night?" came the growled response, Louisiana heavy in the tone.

"Sorry, Gregori. Tempest, the singer, was killed tonight. I need you to tug some lines on the unofficial channels for as much information as you can get on her."

"You couldn't wait until morning to ask me that?"

"It technically _is_ morning on Mars, Gregori. I've got Lucian working on the official channels, and even if nothing pans out, all you've wasted is a little time."

"All right, all right," Gregori grumbled. "I'll let you know what, if anything, I find."

"Thank, Gregori."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You're going to owe me big, Nicolas." Another quiet beep and Nicolas closed his computer with a sigh.

"That's the best I can do for now," he said, glancing over his shoulder at Shang. "Unless we want to go there ourselves and dig around, we're going to have to leave it to Lucian and Gregori."

"No, that's all right, Nicolas" Shang replied with a sigh. "We'll wait and see what they dig up."

"We don't have to just sit around here, Shang," Nicolas pointed out, shutting his laptop down and stuffing it into a duffle bag.

"Where are we going?"

"Aldera, then to Vasudka. She works at The Waystation there, and if anyone can help us, it's the captains there."

"How do you know that?" Nicolas stopped and looked at him.

"Every ship captain has his or her favorite mechanic. Dusty, also known as Sarah Monroe, is the best The Waystation has to offer. No matter how badly damaged their ships are, they all try to make it as far as The Waystation and back to her." He chuckled. "I met one of the captains, Stephens I think his name was, and he told me that Sarah works miracles on their ships, no matter how badly damaged they are when they come in."

"Let me guess," Shang chuckled, easily picturing the scenario, "if they come back almost in pieces, she threatens to hit them with a large wrench, then puts the ship back together. When she's done, she tells them not to do it again, and gets a favor of some kind in return for all her work." Nicolas nodded, smiling.

"Stephens still owes her several. At last count, it was ten or twelve."

"One of those 'name your price' moments, I suppose," Shang replied, shaking his head a little. "Well, we're not getting anything done by sitting around here. My ship or yours, Nicolas?"

"Yours, if you don't mind. Mine's in pieces."

"What happened?"

"It blew up not long after I got here." He shrugged. "I have another, but it's not on this planet at the moment."

"Where'd you leave it?"

"Vasudka," he said with an embarrassed chuckle. "I was attacked by, believe it or not, pirates, and they did a real number on my ship. At the time, they were backlogged, so I just called in a replacement and left." He smiled. "It should be ready by now."

"I'm sure."

"We need to make a little stop first."

**Arus: Castle of Lions**

She didn't know what had drawn her there, but she'd crept into the castle through the sewer systems as a rat. She followed her instincts to the control room, sighing internally at how lax the security was. _With how often they've been attacked and infiltrated,_ she thought in disgust, _you'd think they'd have better security. Then again, not _every_ assassin can shape shift._ Dusty chuckled a little to herself, but kept to a dark corner and made herself as small as possible to keep from attracting attention. She froze, hardly daring to breath, when a man stood from the chair in front of the console.

She could see him, with an artist's eye, standing in the middle of a field, mist rising about knee height from the ground with a vintage World War II airplane, gleaming silver in the predawn light. He stood next to it, one elbow resting on its wing, the other hand in the pocket of his bomber jacket, his brown hair ruffled by the breeze. He looked over his shoulder, as though someone had just spoken to him, throwing his profile into relief. His high brow, patrician nose and slightly clefted chin were all perfectly proportioned to make him unique, handsome, not in a classic way, but in his own.

His jeans rode low on his hips, white at the stress points, the lower half of the legs flaring over his boots. His brown hair was untamed and untied, but it gave him more of a rakish air, rather than simply looking untidy.

Stretching to ease muscles that had been in the same position for hours, Lance sighed as he pushed both hands through his hair before picking up a coffee mug resting on the arm of the chair. _The only problem with night duty,_ he groused to himself, _is that when you run out of coffee, it's a half mile hike to the kitchens for more._ He lifted a brow when the console signaled an incoming transmission. "Castle control," he said, pressing a button.

"Hello again, Lance," Shang replied with a chuckle, his face appearing on the screen. Dusty studied him, feeling a connection to him she didn't know how to define. "I didn't think to catch you on graveyard shift."

"Some of us actually have to work for a living, Shang," Lance answered, laughing. Dusty closed her eyes as something lifted in her at hearing that laugh. She was connected to Lance, as well, and didn't know what to do about it. "I see you have Nicolas with you. Have you heard anything new?"

"Nothing." Shang shook his head. "We need to talk, face to face."

"I'll meet you," Lance said and sent the coordinates. Curious, Dusty followed after him, wondering what or whom they were talking about. Once they were outside, she skittered into the dark and changed to a leopard, stretching along a branch high in a tree to keep out of sight. Shang's ship touched down, the jade green shining in the lights around the landing pad. They waited, Lance impatiently and Dusty with centuries of experience and training, for Nicolas and Shang. The ramp lowered with a slight hiss of pressurized air escaping, and both men descended. "What's all this about?"

"Something about all of this doesn't feel right to me, Lance," Shang said, pushing a hand through his hair. "It feels like she's laying false trails for us, sending us off in all directions to keep us scattered."

"Or someone else might be," Nicolas added, his eyes searching the shadows. "We just don't know right now."

"So, basically what you're saying is, is that this could take a lot longer than we hope it would," Lance translated with a heavy sigh. "I don't understand."

"Neither do we, Lance," Shang began, but trailed off when Nicolas held up a hand. "What is it?"

"I feel something," he whispered, reaching out with his senses as he'd been taught to do, seeking the source of the unsettling feeling. "It feels like . . . Dusty, but not quite the same. Something feels off, wrong about it."

"Where?"

"I don't know. I can't get a good direction on it."

"Show me what you're doing, Nicolas," Lance said quietly, walking over to stand directly in front of him. "Maybe I can help." Nicolas glanced at Shang, who shrugged.

"It couldn't hurt," he replied to the unspoken question in his eyes. Sighing a little, Nicolas showed him, taking him through the steps. Lance caught on quickly, quicker than Nicolas expected, surprising him. Burying it to examine later, he led Lance through the last steps.

"What do you feel?"

"You were right," he answered quietly, not wanting to break his own concentration. "It _does_ feel like Dusty, but it's . . . different, somehow."

"Can you tell where it's coming from, Lance?"

"No, it's just there," he told them with a slight shake of his head. "Almost like it's coming from everywhere and nowhere in particular." In her tree, Dusty growled softly, the sound barely audible over the wind, but Nicolas lifted his head, catching it. Cursing herself for losing control even that little bit, Dusty froze, not even twitching her tail.

_We're being watched, Lance,_ Shang said quietly, picking up on Nicolas' unrest.

_I know,_ he replied, catching another sound in the wind. It sounded like a heartbeat, slow, controlled. The wind changed direction and he lost it, but he had a general direction this time. _Over there, on the far side of the landing area,_ he told them, keeping his voice as low as possible. _In the trees._

_I hope you two are all right in the dark,_ Nicolas warned a moment before all the lights went out. In the seconds it took to let his eyes adjust, Lance heard cries of pain from Shang and Nicolas before he felt something slam into his chest, knocking him to the concrete. The weight didn't leave his chest, and he felt claws pierce his shoulders.

_Don't move, Lance!_ Shang cried, somewhere off to right. Lance held completely still as instructed, hardly daring to breath with what felt like two hundred pounds of leopard on his chest. There was a whisper of sound from off to his left, and he the weight shifted suddenly, sharp teeth holding- but not crushing- his throat.

_If you move,_ _I'll tear out your throat,_ whispered a voice in his mind, _and your friends won't be able to save you._

_What do you want from me?_ Lance asked in reply along the same mental path. _Dusty, what happened to you?_ The teeth at his throat tightened for a heartbeat, before they and the weight were gone. The lights came back on, blinding him and as the afterimages faded, he saw Dusty at the edge of the tarmac, confusion written on her face. _Dusty--_ He blinked and she was gone. Looking around, he saw Nicolas was helping Shang to his feet.

"Are you all right?" Nicolas asked, easily supporting Shang's weight as they crossed the tarmac to him. Lance nodded, pushing a hand through his hair.

"Let's get inside," he advised, and led them into the castle, looking back over his shoulder only once at the spot where Dusty had disappeared. _Come back soon, Dusty._

"Dusty's one of the most powerful immortals that I've ever run across," Shang said to Nicolas while they waited for Lance to return from telling Keith what was going on. "It's quite possible she's _the_ most—Ow!"

"Sorry," Nicolas muttered, repositioning the bandage even though he knew that Shang didn't need it. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, just look at this," Shang replied, gesturing to the various cuts, gashes, and bruises all over his body. "No one's _ever_ been able to do this, not in over five thousand years."

"Impressive," he said. "Incredible."

"She could have killed us so easily and in more ways than one, so why didn't she?" Nicolas had no answer, so he kept quiet and continued to bandage the myriad of deep cuts. "So what do we do?"

"We need her ground."

"Who's her ground?"

"Lance," he sighed and Shang raised an eyebrow.

"You've got to be kidding," he muttered, pushing a hand through his hair.

"When she saw him, she stopped," Nicolas explained, "and for a second, she was back, but just for a second."

"Do you want to tell him, or should I?" Nicolas was saved from answering when Lance joined them in the Observation Room again. Shang had taken care of some of the deeper cuts, and was content to let the smaller ones heal on their own while Nicolas told Lance what he and Shang had talked about before coming to Arus.

"You're serious?" he asked incredulously. "You think I'm a ground?"

"She didn't tell you?" Nicolas asked, studying him. Lance shook his head and Nicolas pushed a hand through his hair. "She told you about NightWalkers, but she didn't tell you about grounds?"

"We talked about it, but not that I'd be hers," Lance answered, shrugging slightly.

"Maybe she didn't know, Nicolas," Shang suggested quietly, and Nicolas turned to glare at him.

"She knew," he said just as quietly, something dangerous in his tone that even Shang, immortal though he was, mentally took a step back from. "She always knew who would be a ground and the ones who needed one the most."

"Are you a ground?" Lance asked, dismissing the idea of stepping between the two. As injured as they both were, there was no telling what might happen.

"Yes," Nicolas replied, taking a deep breath to quiet his raging emotions, feeling the temperature of the room rise several degrees. "Unfortunately, I'm not Dusty's ground. You are. You're the only one who can reach her." Lance got up to pace around the room, sunk deep in thought. Shang and Nicolas remained silent, not wanting to interrupt him.

"I don't know what happened to make Dusty, as strong as she is, just forget about everything and everyone here," Lance murmured, pushing a hand through his hair, "and I'm not totally certain that I'll be able to reach her, even if I am her ground. She's over three thousand years old--"

"I'm over five thousand years old, Lance," Shang interrupted quietly, "and even _I_ can't reach her. Only you can." Lance sighed and dropped into a chair.

"I've never known Dusty to be anything but calm, collected," Nicolas said to no one particular, "even in the most difficult situations. To see her like that was . . . frightening, to say the least."

"I've only seen her come close to losing her temper once," Lance added, closing his eyes, "and that was scary enough. What makes you think that I'll be able to get through to her, ground or not?"

"She loves you," Shang told him simply, pushing a hand through his hair. "Whether she remembers you or not, she loves you."

"So what do we do?"

**AN:** Sorry, sorry, sorry! Don't hurt me! I didn't mean to take this long, I swear! If you're still with me, read and review and let me know what you think. Mustang, honey, thanks for your help!


	6. Storms and Sacrfices

**Disclaimer:** Why do I have to do this? It's not mine, and I suppose I'll get over that someday. For now, I'll just save my meager pay and buy the box set of DVDs on sale. (Shameless plug, I know, but there are a couple episodes I missed and I like picking on it, MST3K style- don't own _that_ either- with my sister.)

**AN:** _Seriously_ sorry it took me so long to update! The Muse struck with another story and I had to run with it while it lasted. I'll try not to let it happen again.

Forbidden Territory: Uncharted Planet 

Her rage took form in a vicious storm, but Dusty didn't notice that the earth rumbled, shook, rolled. The wind unleashed its deadly power, sent leaves, twigs, and small branches flying through the air like missiles. Lightning sizzled once, twice, three times, slammed into the earth as thunder cracked, shaking the land with the unholy sound. Animals, large and small, hid themselves, huddling together in fear, instinctually knowing the storm wasn't natural and that a being of immense power was controlling it.

"_Why_ did I go there?" Dusty shouted to the black, roiling clouds overhead. "I was so _stupid_ to go there!" She spun, hair flying in the vicious winds and rapidly shifting color, and destroyed a tree with a bolt of lightning, leaving nothing but a crater as the ashes scattered in the wind. The heavens opened up and rain poured down hard and fast, as if floodgates had burst. Lightning sizzled, whipped across the sky, slammed into the earth. On its heels thunder boomed, shaking the mountains in the distance.

She knew she should control her anger, that countless people could be hurt in the storm, but she couldn't find a single reason to care. Tress creaked ominously nearby, several fell, but she didn't hear them. The storm raged inside her and without, so intertwined that she had no idea where one left off and the other began. Dusty realized that it didn't matter, for neither would abate soon. She could hear the sea, beating violently against the cliffs in time to her heart. In a flash of lightning, she could see, far below, the angry gray sea. Even the rain smelled of it now, feral, terrifying, and somewhere deep inside her, exciting.

_This_ was something she couldn't do anywhere else, except in painting. _Here_ was power, awesome and terrible. She could bring down the heavens, keep the world locked in a prison of ice or rain if she chose. Dusty did neither, knowing and respecting the power of nature, even if she could control it to an extent.

She kept her emotions hidden everywhere else but here, letting them take shape, rage inside and outside, until they emptied. She had always been an emotional creature, and after more than three millennia, being hurt time and again, she'd finally locked them away to save her sanity. Now, after a century of keeping them in the lockbox in the back of her mind, someone had brought them out and made her deal with them simply by being who he was.

She couldn't be a cold, efficient mercenary with all those emotions running loose inside her, and she realized that she didn't care about the job anymore. Being a mercenary had started as a way to alleviate the boredom that running several businesses couldn't ease, and she'd quickly risen to the top of the large, insular world of selling one's honor and skills to the highest bidder or the right agenda, political or personal. Nothing had mattered except the thrill of the chase, knowing that she held the lives of her targets in her hands and could snuff them out any way she chose, unless otherwise instructed.

_His_ face swam into her thoughts, but she banished it, shoving it into the back of her mind and firmly locking the door on it. It was not to be denied, however, and kept coming back into focus, no matter how hard she tried to keep it locked away. Heaving a sigh, she ran a hand through her dripping hair, now back to the original black, and felt the storm, inside and out, calm and ease to a fine drizzle. She knew she needed to solve the puzzle of the pilot who knew her, and soon. Otherwise, the storm she'd unleashed here would seem like a summer shower before she was through.

_Everything was going according to plan . . . well, almost everything. There'd only been one little hitch and that was Dusty had gone back to Arus. He was sure she wasn't there anymore, but he wasn't taking any chances. She might come back and cause more trouble._

_Nicolas was too perceptive by half, and this Shang was another problem he'd have to deal with soon. Heaving a sigh, he drew a long knife from its sheath at his side and tested its edge with his thumb. Up close and personal or perhaps a sniper shot? He'd figure it out before long, he was sure._

_As it was, he had enough to deal with for the moment. Darius would have to be removed before too much longer as well. His pitiful play for leadership of the NightWalkers was falling apart and he'd started to get desperate. Someone would have to put him out of everyone's misery. Might as well be him._

**Arus: Castle of Lions**

"You _really_ think she'll come back here?" Lance asked Shang, looking confused and more than a little worried. He felt . . . _something_ and wasn't sure if it was coming from her or from somewhere in himself. It made him edgy, restless, almost like there was a thunderstorm coming and the air was electrified with the promise and threat of it.

"She might, Lance," Shang answered with a shrug, "but then again, she might not. She hurt Nicolas and I, but didn't kill us, and she could have. She could have killed you, but she backed off."

"Dusty's always had a thing for solving puzzles," Nicolas added, leaning against a wall and crossing his arms over his chest. "If it interests her, she'll keep working at it until she's figured it out."

"I've noticed," Lance muttered, thinking of how long she'd worked on O'Brian's files until she and Pidge had found what she looking for. They'd worked steadily for days, scrolling through so much information that it gave him a headache just to think about looking at a computer screen for even half of the time they did.

"Not only that, Lance," Shang continued, shooting Nicolas a look that had the NightWalker narrowing his eyes in annoyance, "but she'll be drawn back here, knowing that you have some- if not all- of the answers she needs just now."

"How long do you think it will take for her to come back?"

"Not long at all." Lance was silent for a time, the feeling fading, but not going away completely.

"You felt it, too?" Nicolas asked quietly, making Lance whip his gaze to him, the answer clear in his eyes. "She was upset, angry even, but something's calmed her down a little." He closed his eyes for a moment, giving the feeling some study. "She's frustrated, but determined to finish this, one way or another." When he opened his eyes again, he found that Lance was studying him thoughtfully, but behind it was more than a little jealousy. "Dusty decided when I came to her that she should leave an open link to her mind in case I ever needed her help. I don't think she's realized yet that it works both ways. It never got deeper or more complicated than that between us."

"Children," Shang broke in, bringing their attention back to the matter at hand. "What do we do when she gets here?"

"More to the point, how are we going to know when she gets here?" Lance wondered, pushing a hand through his hair.

"We'll know," Shang and Nicolas replied together.

**Earth: Big Sur, California**

_As he came up to the house that Dusty had started her own construction company to have restored, he was reminded of the first time he'd come there, shaking in abject terror in the back seat of Dusty's car, not really believing that he was out of "Doctor" Elijah Robinson's hands. Despite the fact that she was constantly murmuring reassurances in his head and that he could feel her draining the fear-fueled energy from his body, he was still terrified that she was just like him. She'd subject him to more experiments that would eventually kill him. It wasn't until they'd reached the end of the long driveway that he really took the time to notice his surroundings._

_It was a Gothic masterpiece, with towers and turrets rising into the sky and high mullioned windows shone in the light of the full moon. Terraces and balconies jutted out then danced around corners, and a huge curving glass where one could stand and look out almost over the whole redwood forest dominated the top floor. Chuckling at his astonished look and his thoughts, she said, "I like my space, and my privacy. I decided to postpone the moat, though."_

_She took him on a tour, having obviously told everyone else to find someplace else to be for the duration, for they met no one in the many twisting hallways, winding corridors, leading him under lofty ceilings, into rooms both enormous and cramped. There was a two-story library packed with books, from first editions to dog-eared paperbacks. Parlors with curving couches and delicate porcelain, Ming vases, Tang horses, Lalique crystal and Mayan pottery. Walls were done in rich, deep colors, offset by gleaming wood and Impressionist paintings._

_The west wing held a tropical greenery, an indoor pool and a fully equipped gym with a separate whirlpool and sauna. Through another corridor, up a curving staircase, there were bedrooms furnished with four-posters or heavy carved headboards. He finally stopped counting rooms. They went up more stairs, then stepped into a huge office with a blue marble desk and a wide sheer window that was glowing silver with moonlight. Computers, at least six of them, sat silent and waiting._

_A music room was farther down the same corridor, complete with a black grand piano and an old jukebox. Almost dizzy, he stepped into a ballroom and stared at his own multiplied refection. Above, a trio of magnificent chandeliers blazed with sumptuous light._

_When he yawned, hugely, she blushed a little. "I'm sorry. I guess I got caught up showing off," she apologized with a small smile. "I'll show you to your room." Saying nothing, he followed her again. "All the rooms here are shielded to block out psychic noise, but up here there's not much of that to worry about, except from each other. If you need help finding something, or questions about anything, feel free to ask." She looked back over her shoulder at him. "We're going to help you control your powers and help find out what kind of powers you _do_ have, naturally or not. How do you feel?"_

"_Better," he murmured, his vocal chords not up to the task of much more than that. Dusty nodded and stopped in front of a door, sensing he had a question he wanted to ask before she left him. "How are you keeping the energy under control?"_

"_I'm a ground," she answered simply, shrugging one shoulder. Seeing his baffled look, she explained what a ground was and said that she'd work on getting him one. "We may have to go through a few before we find one that suits you, but we'll keep going until we do. It'll help you more than you know." She put a hand on the doorknob, but stopped before opening it. "Do you have a name?"_

"_If I did before Robinson, I don't remember it." She nodded again, filing the information away for later use._

"_Did he give you one?"_

"_Mikhail."_

"_Good night, then, Mikhail. I'll see you in the morning." She left him, but he knew that she pulled the overflow of energy from him all night long and she somehow managed to keep the nightmares at bay, allowing him his first good night's sleep in six years. After breakfast the next morning, she'd introduced him to several grounds, but it wasn't until the last one that they hit. A young woman with puppy brown eyes, shoulder length hair that couldn't decide if it was blond or brown, and a slim but sturdy build, she easily controlled the energy building in him at being around so many people all at once. "This is Savannah. I'll leave you to get to know each other. If you need anything, let me know."_

_Despite the fact that they disagreed on almost everything, they got along very well, and his training began the next day. Slowly and surely, he gained control over his powers, and was eventually able to leave Raven's Peak with Savannah for longer and longer periods of time._

_One afternoon, almost five years later, Savannah was returning from picking up some desperately needed supplies and was killed by a drunk driver. Mikhail refused to get another ground, and left the Peak a week later, never to be heard from again . . . until now._

**Inside Raven's Peak**

Lucian and Gregori had, for some reason, in the course of their investigations into the vampire hunters discovered that Darius was behind several attempts on Dusty's life, and had even found out where O'Brian had been hiding. After sending O'Brian to Julian for safekeeping, they'd immediately returned to Earth and set off for the Peak. They were waiting for Darius in Dusty's office, when they both suddenly _heard_ a cry of agony in their minds. Bursting through the door, they followed the mental echoes through the twisting hallways. They found him in the ballroom with Mikhail crouched over him, holding a bloody knife in his hands.

They stood still for a moment too long. Mikhail flew at Gregori, trying to stab him through the heart, but at the very last moment, his intended victim dodged as the room went dark. "Come out, come out wherever you are," Mikhail chanted, listening with all his senses for the two other NightWalkers. There was nothing, not even the barely audible buzzing of their thoughts. "I know you're in here somewhere."

"Why, Mikhail?" Gregori called from somewhere behind him. He spun, and leaped, but he wasn't there and not even the slightest rustle of his clothes gave him away. "Why did you kill Darius?"

"I did you a favor," he growled in reply, slowly stalking around the room. "He was a pathetic weakling that thought he could lead the NightWalkers."

"And you can?" Lucian asked, his voice seeming to come from everywhere at once. "Darius wasn't ready, that much is true, but we're all loyal to Dusty."

"I'm not," he answered, sneering in the dark. "She's as weak as Darius, and the rest of you."

"Valuing life isn't weakness, Mikhail," Gregori told him, feinting away from a swipe that almost hit his stomach, "and disregarding it isn't strength." Mikhail laughed insanely.

"Is that right?" he demanded, punching the air in front of him, hoping to hit either man. "Then why was I able to invade her mind and make her forget everything that happened after she stopped being a mercenary? She almost killed Nicolas and her own ground. She doesn't seem to value life very highly . . . or perhaps she does, as she'll kill just about anyone for the right price." While delivering that piece of news, he'd been inching closer to where he'd discovered Lucian to be standing. He brought his knife up then down in a powerful thrust, roaring in anger when it struck the wall, burying itself to the hilt in the thick wood.

Knowing it was impossible to get it out and not be captured or killed in the attempt, he fled, all attempts at stealth abandoned. Lucian brought the lights back just as the door slammed shut behind Mikhail. "Do you think it's true?" Gregori asked, crouched near Darius to check if there was even the faintest clue that he was still alive.

"He's gone mad," Lucian replied, "so anything's possible." He joined Gregori, and knew that there was nothing they could do for Darius now. "We have to find Nicolas, let him know what's going on." Gregori nodded and followed him out, locking the door behind them and leaving a compulsion in the air so no one would disturb the room for a while.

**Arus: Castle of Lions**

His computer beeped, waking Nicolas from a light doze. Pulling his laptop across the night table toward him, he lifted the screen and punched a few numbers. Lifting an eyebrow when he saw it was Lucian, he pressed another button and opened the line. "What is it, Lucian?" he asked, not liking the look on his friend's face.

"We've got some bad news, Nicolas," Lucian answered, pushing a hand through his hair.

"Gregori's with you?" Lucian nodded. "All right, then. What's the news?"

"Darius is dead," Gregori replied when Lucian hesitated, "and it was Mikhail."

"Mikhail? Why would he--"

"The loss of Savannah has probably driven him insane," Lucian put in, shooting him a glare that had Nicolas closing his eyes.

"Now's isn't the time to get into this, you two," he told them, knowing if he didn't stop them, they'd argue for twenty minutes. "What else?"

"Mikhail- not Darius- was the one behind all of the attacks on Dusty and was the one who erased her memories."

"Darius wasn't smart enough or powerful enough for that," Nicolas agreed, standing up to pace. "All right. Where is Mikhail now?"

"We don't know. He escaped and we didn't find a trace of him anywhere around the Peak." Nicolas nodded: he'd expected that.

"Thank you, guys. Tell the others that I'll be back soon, and that I want you two to keep an eye on things while I help Dusty."

"Where are you?"

"Arus. Stay at the Peak, and do your best to clean up the messes Darius and Mikhail have made."

"Yes, Nicolas," they replied together, and the screen went dark.

_Shang, Lance, I've got some bad news._ He stopped for a moment by the window, seeing black clouds beginning to move in, sensing that Dusty was nearby and not in the best of moods. _Meet me in the Observation Lounge. _He sighed heavily. _While you're at it, you'd better tell the Princess to get as many people into the storm shelters as possible. It's going to be a rough night._

**Forests around Castle of Lions**

The storm was building in her again, and was starting to take shape in the air. The electricity fairly crackled along her fur, making her anxious to move, but she held still. One movement now, even the slightest twitch, could bring disaster. She'd just have to wait until they came to her, and she knew they would. _Patience,_ she counseled herself, getting agitated again as the storm moved closer. _They'll come. Just wait for the right moment._

**AN:** Whew! What a chapter, huh? Can't wait to see what happens next!


	7. Endings and Beginnings

**Disclaimer:** Once again, I don't own it! Why should I have to keep typing this? Oh yeah, I'm still writing fan fiction. ::smacks self:: Duh!

**AN: **After the last chapter, I needed a quick break! That was intense to write. I rewrote the confrontation between Mikhail, Lucian and Gregori three times before it felt right. I hope you enjoyed reading it, and appreciate what I go through for this. Just kidding. I'll keep writing even if no one ever reads it. It won't leave me alone, and neither will the characters, so I have to keep writing.

Not only did I need a quick break before going on with this chapter, my sister managed to get me sick with her cold. It's been exhausting just sitting on the couch and watching television, and as a result, it's been hard to find the energy to write. Well, I'm back now, and we'll all have to see what we get.

Forest Around Castle of Lions 

The storm held off for now, but the clouds were low and black as pitch, and thunder rumbled threateningly in the distance. Winds, already approaching gale force, howled through the trees, ripping off leaves and branched and sending them flying through the air. It promised to bee a hell of a night, with the storm the worst Arus had seen in three centuries.

Somewhere, Dusty waited, watching for just the right moment to make her move. Lance waited, somewhat impatiently, for that move, whatever it might be. Nicolas and Shang were outside as well, but too far away to be of much help if things went bad. It was a distinct possibility, if what Nicolas said about Mikhail was true. He had a feeling it was, moving his shoulders a little at the itch between his shoulder blades.

_Are you all right, Lance?_ Shang asked quietly, not wanting Dusty to hear.

_Just feel like I have a bull's-eye on my back,_ he replied with a wry chuckle. _This is nuts. You two must have hypnotized me to get me to agree to this._

_No such thing, Lieutenant,_ Nicolas broke in with a chuckle of his own. _Trust us, and yourself. Everything will work out._

_I hope so,_ Lance grumbled to himself. _Here we go._

High in a tree, she watched the pilot stand alone, calm but with impatience starting to show in his body language. She could outwait him, but that would accomplish nothing tonight. Dropping silently to the ground, she crept to the edge of the forest, belly to the leaves. He was waiting for her. That much she knew even without looking into his mind, and it was tempting, oh so _very_ tempting to dig around for answers to her questions.

For some reason, she didn't look or dig for answers. Just _looking_ at him calmed the storm inside her, and the winds lost some of their force. That puzzled her, because she'd been trying to get a tighter grip on her powers for weeks, and somehow, just the sight of him, gave it to her. _What's going on here?_

_Duster._ Her name drifted to her, as if on the wind. She shook her head, wanting to block it out, but the harder she tried, the louder it became. _Duster._

_Damn it, who are you?_ she demanded, her control slipping just enough to have lightning splitting the sky. _Who are you to me?_ Seizing his moment, Lance flooded her mind with memories, shoving through the crack in the block Mikhail had imposed in her mind. Nicolas and Shang gave him an extra boost, adding their own memories to the mix.

Unable to hold the leopard any longer, she shifted back to human form, and after centuries of practice, she had to take a moment to get used to her much more limited senses. The mental flood continued until the barrier was gone. It felt like hours, but lasted only minutes, before it slowed to a trickle, then stopped completely.

"Dusty?" Lance asked quietly, taking a hesitant step toward her. She smiled a little.

"Lance." His shoulders slumped in relief for a moment, before he straightened and took two steps toward her. Her eyes solely on him, she saw him jerk, then stagger, a stain spreading across his chest. The sound of the shot finally reached her a moment before she ran to catch him as he fell. Nicolas and Shang reached her as she lowered him to the ground, one hand pressed to the wound to stop the bleeding, his blood warm and sticky on her fingers.

"Dus--" he tried, blood flecking his lips. "Dus--"

"Don't talk, _doushenka,_" she told him, keeping her hand on him. "Save your strength." She looked up at Shang and Nicolas. "Get him inside." Rising to her feet, she turned back to the forest, knowing Mikhail was coming closer.

"Dusty." She shook her head at Nicolas.

"Shang, work at healing until I get back." They watched her eyes go ice blue and hard as stone. "I've got hunting to do." The storm had broken up, the clouds allowing the moon to shine through, but it was back now with a vengeance. Lightning sizzled across the sky and thunder boomed, shaking the earth. _Inside!_ she ordered and in the next blinding flash of lightning, she disappeared.

Mikhail knew she was coming for him. He expected no less from the first NightWalker, and her powers had to be going haywire with her ground near death or already dead. Breaking down the rifle, he waited for her, eagerly looking forward to the fight.

At first, all he could hear was the wind and his own heartbeat, pounding with excitement. _This_ was the time he'd finally destroy her, and he'd rule the NightWalkers- no, the universe! - with an iron fist. Chuckling to himself, he drew the hunting knife from the sheath on his thigh.

She was going to _beg_ for death before he was through with her. Oh, yes, death would be a real treat. Caught up in his musings, he didn't hear Dusty's swift and silent approach.

Dusty slammed into his back, taking them both down, but she was up in a flash and halfway across the clearing before he lifted his head. "Foolish, foolish boy," she said as he shot to his feet. "What honestly makes you think you can defeat me?"

"You're weak, Dusty," he replied, wiping blood from his lip. "You almost killed your ground. I just finished the job." He gestured to the sky above them. "That's proof enough."

"I've been without a ground for years, Mikhail," she told him, drawing her own knife and crouching. "The storm is just proof that I have emotions." She smiled, but her eyes were still ice cold. "You pissed me off, Mikhail. First, you tried to kill my friends, and me then you erased my memories- that was impressive, by the way- and now you plan to take over the NightWalkers. Lastly, you shot my ground. For that alone, you've earned a swift execution."

"Bring it on, Dusty. Let's see what you've got." He sprang at her, snarling savagely. Mikhail's knife arced up and slashed at her throat, coming heart stoppingly close before she deflected the blow. They circled each other like a tiger and a panther. Dusty, still in the defensive, crouched position, seemed to wait for the heavier man to expend his energy uselessly. She parried all of Mikhail's slashing attempts at a quick kill, but as the fight continued she received several superficial cuts that bled freely. Ignoring them, Dusty began to grow more aggressive, watching for openings, drawing blood from her enemy.

Mikhail feinted low then arced high with his dagger. Dusty deflected the thrust with her own blade while her left hand snaked out with blurring speed to seize her foe's wrist. With the blades locked above their heads, they strained, each unable to break free until Dusty's yank on Mikhail's arm sent them both tumbling to the earth where they rolled in the dirt.

His blade came dangerously close to Dusty's throat but by sheer strength, she forced the other man's hand back. They remained in a stalemate of rolling twists, each unable to finish the other until Mikhail suddenly broke free and reached out with his left hand to throw a fistful of dirt into Dusty's face. Dusty felt the sting of the gritty dirt in her eyes and was momentarily blinded. Just as quickly, the sharp agony of Mikhail's knife sliced into her chest. Opening eyes blurred with tears, she focused on Mikhail's blade as he withdrew it and again raised it, this time to plunge it into Dusty's throat.

Dusty concentrated on moving her own dagger, an incredibly painful task with the puncture wound in her chest. Even through dirt-blurred eyes, she could see that Mikhail's total attention was on the final kill. His whole lower abdomen was exposed as he raised his body over Dusty. Dusty gutted the man, slashing from left to right before ripping upward toward the heart. As she dodged the blade aimed for her throat, he heard Mikhail's grunt of surprise.

Not relinquishing her impaling hold on Mikhail, Dusty rolled up over the dying man. The pain was suffocating her and a red haze was forming behind her eyes, but she succeeded in pinning Mikhail to the earth. The larger man choked on his own blood in a long, slow death rattle. Dusty stood slowly, her hand pressed to the cut on her side.

She called a bolt of lightning from the sky to incinerate his body. Turning, she looked over at the castle, every window shining like a beacon to guide her back. She smiled for a moment, before shifting painfully again to the leopard and making her way back to the castle and Lance. Once there, she shifted once again to her human form and set off for the infirmary.

Her own wounds burned, muscles protesting as she forced herself to walk down the hall and into his room, but she refused to tend to her own hurts first. He needed her and she would be there for him as he had been there for her. He had refused to give up on her, teasing her unmercifully until she smiled, laughed, threw something at him or all of those. Lance alone had noticed when she'd been feeling overwhelmed by her decision to open up to people again, and he'd been calm, the eye of the storm, helping her through the worst and more. Even knowing what she was, the best and the worst, he'd stuck with her. He accepted her, refused to abandon her to fight her demons alone, and she could only do the same for him.

He lay as if dead, his chest barely rising and falling with each breath, even with the respirator pushing air in and out of his lungs. Dusty stood by his bed, looking down at him, knowing if she did nothing, he _would_ die. She was exhausted, her body and mind screaming for sleep, but there was this last thing to do before she could give in to her body's demands. She centered herself and focused until there was nothing but light and healing energy, Shang working alongside her. Working calmly, competently, she worked to repair his damaged organs one at a time, knowing one mistake could cost him his life . . . and her sanity.

She returned to her own body as her legs gave out and she sat heavily in the chair beside his bed. Dusty took his hand, her own trembling with fatigue, and brushed a few strands of hair off his forehead. _Listen to me, _doushenka,she began, reaching deep into his mind, _you must stay with me. Don't make me regret opening up again. I wouldn't be able to stand it if you left me after I spent more than three thousand years looking for you._

_I'm so tired, Dusty,_ Lance replied, barely able to form the words.

_Sleep, then, but don't you _dare_ leave me._ She made it an order. He had to obey her in this, or she would lose her mind. She would not let him go without a fight, but she knew if she lost, there'd be _no_ redemption for her. You_ are _my_ ground. You can't leave me._

_Let me rest,_ he whispered, his voice getting fainter. He just wanted to let go of consciousness, and sleep a long, long time. An eternity maybe. It seemed he'd been tired most of his life.

_No!_ The reply was sharp. _You are not finished here, Lance. I forbid you to do this!_ He was fading away. She could feel his spirit drifting farther and farther from her, yet his departure wasn't a conscious choice. He seemed unable to rally enough strength to keep fighting. She rested her head on the bed. His body had fought as long as it was able, but now the life force was slipping away from him. Lance's heart was still beating because she was forcing the weakened organ to do its job, but Lance seemed too far away to call back.

Dusty sighed, knowing somehow that nothing would be the same if he died. Shang's hand fell heavily on her shoulder, physically connecting them. _You will save him._ The voice was incredibly soft, but Shang had no need to raise his voice to be obeyed.

_He does not wish to continue, Elder,_ she replied, addressing him formally. _I can do nothing else but let him rest._

_You can give in to his every desire later, but not now. We are immortal, Dusty. We embrace life. We hold on. We endure. You will not release him from this world._

_He has the right to make his choice._

_This was not his choice, Dusty!_ Shang persisted. _He was not given a choice! Mikhail took the choice from him. He is tired and worn, but this is not his choice. He embraced you, accepted you, even knowing what you are. You kept the knowledge of what you are from him for his safety and your own; he knows it, though he has had trouble accepting it. He has accepted it now, and you. His choice would be life and you. He can't make the decision, so you must make it for him. You will turn your will on him and prevent this tragedy._ It was no less than a decree, a command meant to be obeyed from one of the oldest immortals to a younger one.

Shang crouched next to her chair, looking up at her. "If you ever considered me a friend, Dusty, trusted my judgment, follow me now." Dusty lost herself for a moment in his eyes, knowing he was right. She immediately turned inward again, swiftly pursued and caught up with that weak, flickering light that was moving so far away from her. She surrounded Lance's spirit, her will a strong wall, an anchor to hold him to this world.

_Lance, stay with me._ She felt his response. Weak and fluttery, but there. What was she thinking? He loved life, embraced it. Dusty held him locked to her. His spirit was being pulled away from her, away from his damaged body. Both she and Shang were exhausted from maintaining the out-of-body experience, but neither wavered in their task.

_I'm tired. Let me sleep for a while._ It was those six little words that convinced her. He wanted sleep, not death. Not eternal sleep. She held tightly to his spirit as she and Shang continued their work, repairing his organs and ridding his body of infection.

Deep within her mind, she felt his spirit falter, the light flickering. _No!_ She clung to him, turning every ounce of her will to prevent that light from being extinguished. They'd come so far, been through so much. Death would not easily take him from her now. Not knowing what else to do, she began to sing, softly at first, a melody of bright and courageous love, a ballad of need. A song of a woman's desperate battle for the one she loved above all else. The notes leapt into the air, silver and gold, dancing like glinting sunlight in the darkened infirmary. She felt his response then, weak but it was there. He clung to the sound of her voice, chaining himself to those notes, her gift to him, and floated above the pain, holding to life, clinging to Dusty, _his_ ground.

She was humbled by his complete trust and faith in her. She'd lied to him when she first met him, offered half-truths or evasions more often than not, and he trusted her to save his life. Dusty knew she never would have given her life so completely into another's hands, and she was awed and humbled and grateful. Blood-red tears dripped onto her hand, but her voice never faltered as she sang to him.

The ordeal seemed to last an eternity to her, and her nerves were rubbed raw, but she sang with her heart and soul. Her voice surrounded him, kept him above the pain in his body, and kept him anchored firmly to her. _Now, Dusty,_ Shang said, relief in his voice. _Send him to sleep, and let his body rest._ Dusty sagged, completely drained of energy, barely able to keep her eyes open. Her every ounce of energy had gone to keeping his heart and lungs working, then to keeping him with her. She sent him into a deep and healing sleep, making sure he would not wake before she did. "Up you get, Dusty," Shang murmured, lifting her up and setting her on the bed beside Lance. "You did well, _piccola._"

"I thank you for your help, Elder," she said, her eyes falling closed.

"We'll talk more when you're both feeling up to it," he chuckled, tucking a blanket around her. "Sleep well and deep, little one." Dusty nodded her thanks wearily and was deep asleep before he got to the door. The others were waiting for him on the other side, worry and fear clearly visible on their faces and in their eyes.

"Is he--" Allura started, but cut herself off.

"No, he'll live," Shang said, pushing a hand through his hair. "It wasn't easy, but we did it." Everyone sighed in relief.

"What about Dusty?" Pidge asked, looking up at him. "Is she all right?"

"She needs sleep and when she wakes up, she's going to need a lot of food. The kind of work we did and the length of time it took drained her." Keith studied him, his black eyes missing nothing.

_There's something you're not telling us,_ he said quietly. _What is it?_

_She's not immortal anymore. She was willing to give up her life for love, and almost did._ He sighed. _Dusty's been granted what most immortals aren't allowed. She'll have a full life and be able to rest forever at the end, aging as mortals do. It might not be easy for her to accept the change, but eventually she will._ "I'll remain until they wake, but then I must leave," he said aloud.

"Thank you for all your help, Mr. Yakuza," Allura replied, curtsying deeply to him. "If there's anything we can ever do for you, please let us know."

"Thank you, Your Highness."

Three days later, Dusty stirred and opened her eyes. "Welcome back, Dusty," Shang said, smiling down at her. "How do you feel?"

"Hungry," she answered, sitting up and pushing a hand through her tangled hair. "How long was I out?"

"Long enough," he replied with a chuckle. He looked away for a moment and when he turned back his face was blank and she knew something serious was going on.

"What is it, Elder?" she asked quietly, not wanting to wake Lance too soon.

"Dusty, you're not immortal anymore," he told her, pushing a hand through his own hair before he sat down on a chair. "You were willing to give your life for him, and not just because he's your ground." When she said nothing, only looked at him with her face blank, he rushed on. "You've been granted a great gift, Dusty, and it's not one every immortal gets. I know it'll take some time to adjust, but--" He stopped when she started chuckling, quietly at first, then her laugh burst out, long and rich. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes, Elder," she said, still laughing. "Everything will be just fine." After a few moments, her hilarity seemed to exhaust itself. Wiping her eyes, she looked back up at him. "Is there anything else, Shang?"

"One more thing. You've still got all your powers- shapeshifting, magic, all the NightWalker powers- except one: you can die, and permanently this time." He chuckled a little. "So be careful, all right?"

"I will, Elder," she promised, getting to her feet to stretch. "Thank you for everything you've done . . . for both of us."

"Nicolas deserves most of it, I think," he told her, gesturing to the door. She looked over to see Nicolas leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest, scratches and cuts healing on his arms and face.

"It's nice to see you again, Dusty," he said, smiling a little at seeing her up and around. "You had us pretty worried about you."

"I was worried about me, too," she admitted with a chuckle, "and about my NightWalkers. Is everyone all right?"

"Darius didn't make it," he answered, shrugging one shoulder. "Mikhail killed him at the Peak."

"What a mess," she sighed, rubbing her eyes. "Who's looking after things?"

"Gregori and Lucian."

"You left those two in charge? Are you nuts?"

"Just until you get back, Dusty. They can handle it."

"If they don't kill each other first." She smiled at him now, and he straightened, not liking the look in her eyes. "You're going back to the Peak."

"When?"

"Now. You can borrow one of my ships for now, but you'd better get going and make sure that those two haven't thrown everything into chaos."

"Yes, Dusty. By the way, they found O'Brian." One eyebrow went up at that and the glint in her eyes changed from malicious to downright deadly.

"Oh, really? Where was he hiding out?"

"On Mars, somewhere. They sent him to Julian for the time being."

"Interesting," she chuckled to herself, rubbing her hands together. "Most interesting. Anyway," she continued when Nicolas and Shang gave her blank looks, "get a move on, Nicolas. I'm putting you in charge." He gave her a look that spoke very clearly of betrayal.

"That is just plain mean, Dusty."

"For now. Just until I get a chance to swing by and check up on things."

"Very well," he answered with a heavy sigh and left the infirmary to pack what he'd brought with him. Shang lifted an eyebrow at her.

"Nicely done."

"It's all part of the job description, my friend," she chuckled, feeling better than she had in centuries. She looked down at Lance, his chest rising steadily and deeply with every breath. "He'll sleep a while longer."

"You need just as much rest, if not more."

"I'm used to it, but if I wait to eat any longer, I just might faint." Shaking his head at her antics, he trailed after her when she left the infirmary, heading for the kitchens and the food they could both smell cooking.

Two hours later, Lance woke to see Dusty sitting in a chair beside the bed, reading. If he didn't know better, he could have sworn that she hadn't moved in days. "Dusty," he croaked, his throat wild with thirst.

"Hey, look who's awake," she said with a smile, setting her book aside and lifting a glass of water from the bedside table. "Sip slowly, _doushenka_. You'll be sick otherwise."

"How long was I asleep?" he asked, struggling to obey when he wanted to drink the whole glass in one gulp to ease the fire in his throat.

"Three days."

"Is that all?" he murmured, making her smile. "How long have you been there?"

"About an hour. I was waiting for you to wake up." She chuckled. "You look cute when you sleep."

"Please," he groaned, both amused and a little embarrassed. "Don't spread that around, all right? I have an image to uphold, you know."

"All right, all right," she laughed, putting up her hands in self-defense. "I won't . . . but it's still true."

"Can we talk about something else, please?"

"Very well, _doushenka._" She settled back in her chair and steepled her fingers under her chin. "What would you like to talk about?"

"First of all, what's got you in such a good mood? We almost died."

"The fact that we didn't is enough to put me in a good mood for a couple hundred years, but . . . "

"But what?"

"I'm not immortal anymore, Lance," she replied quietly, before she surprised the hell out of him when she grinned, threatening to split her face in two.

"What are you so happy about?" he wondered, propping himself on his elbows. She lifted an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to draw his own conclusion. It took him a few minutes, flipping through conversations he'd had with her. "You have to be willing to give up your life for love," he murmured, looking over at her. "Power, money, immortality- all of it."

"I was," she agreed, nodding in acknowledgement, "but I don't have to give it _all_ up- just the immortality."

"For me?"

"For myself, as well," she said, something flashing in her eyes before it was gone, "but mostly for you." She stood and sat on the bed with him. "I'd give up all those lifetimes, each and every one of them, if I could spend just one with you." He took her hand and pulled until they were stretched on the bed again, much as they had been for the past three days. She sighed as tensions she didn't know existed left her body in a rush.

"Good work, Duster," he told her around a yawn, "and thank you."

"It's not the first time I've saved your hide," she chuckled, linking her hand with his, "and it probably won't be the last, but as I've grown rather attached to you, you'd better start taking care of it. I don't want to have to do that again."

"I don't, either," he answered, and with that, went back to sleep.

_Sleep well, _cara mia,Dusty thought with a chuckle. Moments later, she was asleep as well.

**AN:** Whew! That was good, huh? A bit longer than usual, too. :: shrugs and yawns :: Well, it's late, so I'm off to bed. Read and review please. Let me know what you think.


	8. Fights and Flights

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own it. I never have and I never will. I'm still writing, so I have to keep saying that. It's driving me crazy, though.

**AN:** This last chapter is a nod to MustangAce. He gave me the idea and though I'd messing with this as maybe a one-shot, I decided to use it as a kind of epilogue and who knows, maybe even a prologue to another story. It all depends on when and how the Muses strike.

Dusty remembered a ball in London she'd been to back in 1750. A _grande dame_ of the ton had invited her, and no one refused her invitation, not even an immortal. She'd arrived unescorted, her cover story as a widow allowing such a thing. She'd been speaking with Lady Cleary, a vacuous but harmless gossip, when a gentleman approached. He was tall, taller even than she was, and she appreciated that, as she was a little over six feet herself. His eyes reminded her of coffee, dark and rich, and seemed to hold thousands of secrets. Thick chestnut hair fell in soft waves to his collar and into his eyes. His shoulders filled out his coat jacket, often stretching the seams as he mingled his way across the room to her. "Certainly dashing, isn't he?" Lady Cleary asked, catching sight of the gentleman and his intent stare aimed at Dusty.

"He certainly is," Dusty replied, nodding slightly and fanning herself in a vain effort to relieve the oppressive heat. She didn't know why so many of the ton went for quantity instead of quality. "I wonder why he's coming over here."

"It's not me he's after," Lady Cleary said, wiggling the fingers of her left hand. The ring might have been a few months old, but she and her husband were happily married and the ton knew it, but it didn't stop her overactive imagination one bit. The gentleman stopped in front of them, bowed graciously and respectfully and held his hand out to Dusty.

"I need to dance with you," was all he said, something wild and untamed in his eyes. She couldn't resist it and realized she didn't want to. It had been as simple as that: he needed to hold her, to make sure she was real and not some figment of his imagination. It was easy for Dusty to extend her hand and take his, blushing like a maid when his lips brushed her knuckles, the contact light, easy, but it weakened her knees and stirred her blood. Why she wasn't sure, but she would figure that out later, when she was alone.

Murmuring her excuse to Lady Cleary, she allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor just as the orchestra began playing a waltz. He held her much closer than propriety allowed, but the thought was gone before she could grip it. What did it matter? She was a widow in the eyes of the ton, and it was perfectly acceptable for her to take a lover or marry again if she chose. She had done neither of those, mostly because she didn't want a man, not a lover or a husband, who might learn her secret and reveal it to the world, such as it was then. The last thing she wanted was notoriety and she went out of her way to avoid it, using all her skills, gifts and instincts to keep from drawing attention to herself in any way.

This gentleman was certainly different than any she'd ever encountered before in her impossibly long life. It was as if he'd read the sorrow and loneliness in her soul and sought to relieve it any way he could. With her gifts, she was able to read his every thought, know his every secret, but she made no move to do either. Something about him touched her in a way so few ever had: it felt like he was holding her heart in his hands and even though she didn't even know his name, she trusted him with it. Knew he'd never break it or hurt her in any way. Her entire being cried out that she stay with him, that here, with him, she could finally find the peace, love and safety that she'd sought for so long. It was impossible, she knew, and must never come to be. She was immortal, both blessed and cursed with long life, and he wasn't.

They didn't speak through the waltz, each content just to be close to the other. When the waltz ended, he returned her to Lady Cleary's side, bowed low over her hand again and disappeared into the crowd. Even with both her height, and his, she couldn't track his progress. It was almost as if he'd never been there at all. Lady Cleary peppered her with questions, but Dusty had no answers for her. She remained at the ball another hour, to be polite, before pleading a headache and leaving alone, just as she'd arrived.

When she'd ventured out the next day, it seemed everyone was talking about her dance with the mysterious stranger. She had Lady Cleary to thank for that one, she knew, but made no move to either prove or disprove the rumors circulating about her and the gentleman when asked about them. Dusty was content to let the ton believe what it would about her, and wasn't surprised when the story changed, getting more and more outrageous, each time it was told. Though she asked, no one seemed to know his name, where he came from, or even if he lived in town. No one had seem him at any other functions, either this Season or over the last few years.

Whoever he was, he obviously preferred to remain anonymous, which suited her just fine as she attempted to do the same. She decided it was time to move on again, easing herself out of the ton for the remainder of the Season. Disappearing without a trace would not be a good idea and would draw far too much attention to whatever she was or wasn't. After sending a thank-you card to her hostess last night and once again apologizing for having to leave early, she began her plans to ease as quietly as she could from London society. Her absence would create a stir, she knew that, but she made every attempt to keep it from causing a major ripple.

Not long after that ball, she was gone. Rumors circulated that she'd gone to Paris, Lisbon and even as far away as America. It was rumored that she'd run off with the mysterious gentleman who'd danced with her, or even that she'd lost her all her money gambling and had fled London in disgrace. No one really knew the truth, and she was content to keep it that way. Neither she nor anyone ever saw the gentleman again, but she knew she'd never forget him, in this or any other lifetime.

"That was an odd one," Lance commented as the scene faded from his mind. Dusty sighed, a slight smile on her face.

"Not the oddest one," she replied, "but by far the one that had the most impact on my life at the time, such as it was." She laughed a little sarcastically. "I still remember some scandalous things about the ton, and most of their descendants. The things I know would probably bring London society to it knees."

"Let's hope you never have to." She grinned wickedly.

"The information is still useful, nonetheless. You never know when it might come in handy."

"I'm sure you caused enough whispers and rumors to see most of the gossips in the ton through the next seven Seasons with some of the things you've done." She laughed, reminding him of a fairy, unexpected and full of mischief.

"The stories I could tell," she chuckled, a wistful look in her eyes. "Even then I was a bit of a recluse and only appeared for the most fashionable ladies of the haut ton, but usually only when the mood struck or I needed a diversion." She frowned a bit. "The hypocrisy of it all did grate on me a little, but I knew that there was a serious double standard of behavior between men and women then. Still is, if you think about it."

"I believe it," he said, and Dusty rewarded him with a dynamite smile. "Did you ever go back to London?"

"About a hundred or so years later," she confirmed, nodding. "It changed a lot, but everything remained the same. It was still the same place of contradictions that I remembered, but there were some differences that made going back worth it."

"Where _did_ you go when you left London?"

"Here, there and everywhere," she answered cryptically, before smiling again. "India, actually. I was there for something like twenty years. After that, I went to China, Japan and the Philippines. I just kept moving around." They were quiet for several minutes, just enjoying each other's company. It had been almost a week since the whole mess with Mikhail had come to light, and been mostly cleared up, and though there was still work to be done, they were taking a little break, watching the sky turn to fire from the roof of Raven's Peak. He'd asked if she'd share some of the more interesting times in her life and she'd been obliging him.

"Duster."

"Hmm?"

"What's it like to shapeshift?" Lance asked, turning his head to look at her. She started in surprise.

"I haven't really thought about it in centuries," she mused quietly, more to herself than to him. She wondered at his question. The mystery. The beauty. How wondrous it was to shapeshift. His question brought up the total exhilaration, the awe she'd felt experimenting until she could shift in midair, on the run, even when using preternatural speed.

"What was it like the first time you changed to Mardukkra?" he persisted earnestly, giving her his most boyish, imploring pout. "Not being able to do it, you can imagine my curiosity." She laughed at him, ruffling his hair as if he were no more than a child. Even as the thought came, he knew it was true: she was well over 3,000 years old and to her, he must have seemed like one sometimes.

"Not all the time, Lance," she told him, reading his thoughts. "Most of the time, you don't even realize the age difference between us, so don't worry about it. Even I forget sometimes." She sighed and dug through her memories for the one he'd asked for. Closing her eyes, she shared it with him.

The first thing she did was build the image in her mind, making sure she had it right before she even attempted to shapeshift. She had no desire to have an extra pair of legs or an extra wing or head. Making sure it was as exact in every detail as she could make it, she let the change take place gradually, knowing speed would come with practice. Her body stretched and grew, muscles and tendons changing shape. Bones popped almost painfully as she shifted from one form to another. Silver scales covered her body, and white wings sprouted between her shoulder blades. A long tail curved around her legs, spikes running the entire length, spaced about six inches apart.

Colors were gone, leaving her with black, white and shades of grey. Though she knew the trees were green, they were grey, edged with white from the moonlight. Her sense of smell and sight were greatly increased, more so than with any of her other shapes. Even the leopard's senses were dull compared to those of the gryphon. Spreading her wings, she bunched roped muscles and leapt high into the air. She'd flown as birds or even as part of the air itself, but it paled in comparison to her first flight as a gryphon.

Each strong downbeat of her wings took her higher and faster than even birds could fly. Her long tail acted like a rudder, and she found she loved the feel of the air blowing through her feathers. Catching an updraft, she went higher, her wings spread as far as they'd go. Snapping her wings close to her body, she dove for the ground, faster and faster, the wind whistling in her ears. At the last moment, she opened her wings and smoothed out the dive, the trees scraping her belly. Three powerful downbeats of her wings and she was high above the trees, gliding on another updraft.

It wasn't easy keeping the image in her mind as she enjoyed her first flight, and it was only when she couldn't possibly hold it another moment that she landed and reluctantly shifted back again.

Lance was quiet for a few minutes, keeping his eyes closed as he relished the feelings of flight she shared with him. Understanding completely, Dusty said nothing, the feelings of her first change to the gryphon still going through her own mind. "Wow," he said finally, opening his eyes. "How could you stand to be on the ground after that?"

"Shifting to the gryphon takes a lot out of me," she answered with a pragmatic shrug. "Even with how many times I've done it, it still does."

"Thank you for sharing it with me, Dusty."

"You're very welcome, and thank you for asking me. I'd forgotten what it felt like: the fear, the wonder and even the sheer power of some of my other forms."

"Is that why you went to Kimaine?" he asked quietly as that was still a touchy subject with her.

"Yes, it was part of the reason," she replied with half a smile. "I learned a lot from them about shapeshifting. The other part of the reason was that it was one of the most backwater planets I could find." She sighed. "I was becoming a little _too_ well known as a mercenary and assassin, and needed someplace to hide out for a few years. Imagine my surprise when Jeremiah Haff crashes on it and leaves me with the Brown Lion."

"I suppose it was a good thing he crashed when he did," Lance said with a grin. "Otherwise, you'd never have come here."

"I've been here before, but it was years ago. Allura was just a child the last time I was here." She gave him a sly look. "I looked quite different then, and I went to her mother's funeral." She paused. "Now that I think about it, her father looked right at me, as if he could see past my disguise to who I was underneath it. He smiled a little, shrugged one shoulder, and went back to talking with Allura. I may be immortal, but I was shaking in my boots. I mean the guy could scare the scales off a dragon when he chose. I left not long after that."

"Show me the look." She did, and they both shuddered at the same time. "I see what you mean, Dusty. That look would reduce Keith to a quivering mass of jelly."

"Maybe I should work on it. You never know, it might come in handy."

"He might just develop an immunity to it," he warned, "or learn it and use it on us." Dusty laughed, leaning back on her elbows.

"Somehow, I don't think so, Lance," she chuckled, trying to picture Keith learning that particular look and failing. She laughed again. "It'd be interesting to see him try, don't you think?"

"Oh, sure," Lance scoffed, "and in the meantime, he ends up coming up with a look of his own that would probably reduce Nanny to tears." Dusty paused, letting that idea roll around in her mind for a few moments.

"Now that's a thought that's going to fester," she said with another shudder. In a lightning change of topic, she asked, "You like vintage aircraft, right?"

"Oh, yeah," he answered after a moment to catch up. "They don't build them like they used to."

"No, they don't." Dusty sighed reminiscently. "What I wouldn't give to fly my Mustang again." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Have you ever been up in one?"

"No."

"You want to?"

"Hell yeah, but where? No place will allow you to fly them."

"I know one or twelve that will."

"You do not."

"Do so." She sat up and held out her hand. "Meet me in the foyer tomorrow morning at dawn and I'll show you planes you've never seen outside a museum. They all still fly and I'll let you pick one and we'll fly it until it runs out of gas. Deal?"

"Deal," he said, taking her hand and shaking it twice to seal their deal. "And if we don't go up, what do I get?"

"I'll let you have one, again, you choice." He studied her, trying to find a loophole in the deal.

"You're on," he replied, finding none. She laughed delightedly.

"_This_ is going to be so much fun," she said, a glint in her eye Lance wasn't sure he trusted, but knew he'd probably have to get used to seeing and wondered if he ever would. With a sigh, he leaned back and watched clouds skitter across the sky. Dusty mirrored his posture and looked at him. "Go ahead and ask, Lance. You won't be able to keep quiet much longer."

"What was your name, Dusty?" he wondered, glancing over at her. "Before everything else happened, I mean?"

"Astrid," she answered after a few moments, almost as if she'd forgotten it. "It means 'beautiful as a goddess'."

"It fits."

"Thank you, _doushenka_," she replied with a smile, the glint coming back into her eyes again. "You know, we never did have that date."

"You're right," he agreed, not having any trouble following where her thoughts were leading. "If you could wear that little black number again . . . "

"I'll see what I can do," she laughed, shaking back her hair. She looked thoughtful for a moment. "I don't think I brought it with me, to tell you the truth." She shrugged as if it didn't mean much to her either way. "I'll just have to find something else then."

"Oh, God." He wasn't sure if it was prayer of thanks or a plea for help, but it made her laugh again, a sound he'd thought he'd lost forever.

_Dusty, we need some help down here,_ Nicolas called, making her sigh a little.

_What is it?_ she asked as she straightened. Lance was on his feet before her and held a hand down to help her up.

_One of the new ones, Barack, is going nuts. No one's been able to help him._ Barack, just a child of about seven, had latched onto her and she knew he'd need extra attention if he was going to make it.

_I'll be right down,_ she promised, and lifted a brow at Lance. "Duty calls."

"Doesn't it always?" he replied, making her chuckle. "Which one?"

"Barack. He _was_ sleeping, and probably had a nightmare." She rested her head on his shoulder as the walked down the stairs together. "I don't know about him, Lance."

"Just keep working with him, Duster," he advised, giving her a squeeze. "Kids bounce back from just about anything."

"Just about," she agreed, "but I wonder if he'll come back from this." Lance sighed, knowing there wasn't much else he could say just now. It didn't take long for the noise to reach them, physical and mental, and from the vibrations in the air, it had been a particularly bad nightmare for the youngest NightWalker. "Oh, dear," she said with a sigh of her own as a Ming urn shattered. "Barack, that's quite enough of that." Lance caught a quick glimpse of Barack, curled in a ball with his head buried in his arms before the door slammed shut between them.

"What do _you_ think, Lance?" Nicolas asked, stepping into view from around the corner, well out of range of flying missiles.

"About Barack?" Nicolas nodded. "He's a child, a powerful one, but he's still a child. He's been through a terrible ordeal, and it's still fresh, real in his mind. Given time, I think he'll be all right." They both felt the lessening of power in the air, and Lance wondered just what Dusty did with all the energy she drew out of those she helped. It was still some time before the door opened and Dusty stepped back out again. Barack followed, hiding behind her when he saw Lance and Nicolas in the hall.

"We're going down to the kitchen for dinner," she told them, keeping Barack's hand in hers. "Would either of you care to join us?"

"Only as long as you're cooking, Dusty," Nicolas said with a smile. Catching a look that passed between Dusty and Lance, he cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, I just remembered something that I was supposed to do. I'll leave you to it, Dusty, and ask that you leave me something for later?" She lifted a brow at him, but nodded and he was gone a moment later.

"What was that all about?"

"I have no idea," she replied, shrugging a shoulder. "Are you coming?" With Barack on one side of her, he took the other and followed her as she led the way to the kitchen. He caught Barack sneaking looks at him around Dusty, and pretended not to notice while Dusty did the same. It was starting to seem that when he wasn't in a power-fueled fit, he was just a normal boy.

With a little stealth and more than a little luck, they managed to sneak out the next morning, as planned. Heaving a small sigh of relief, Dusty led the way to her ship and lifted off, leaving Barack with Destiny, back for the summer holiday at Galaxy Garrison. She would be able to handle him and his outbursts if necessary. "Are you sure you want to leave?" Lance asked, strapping himself in beside her.

"Destiny has Barack well in hand," she replied, with only a slight guilty pang from her conscience. "She's used to dealing with children."

"So where are we going?"

"You'll see," she chuckled, her hands flying so fast over the controls that he couldn't tell what she'd entered into the computer. "For now, just sit back, relax and enjoy the ride." A few hours later, they neared a planet, which Dusty informed him was Constanta.

"They'll let you fly here?"

"I told you that I pretty much own this place, Lance," she reminded him, smiling, "and trust me, where we're going, it won't matter." She landed on a positively ancient airstrip, with three cavernous hangers on one side, their door standing open. After trotting down the ramp, Lance got his first look at Dusty's collection in hangar Two, and just about dropped to his knees in shock and reverence. "Pick one."

"Just one?" he replied, sounding like a little boy at Christmas with hundreds of brightly wrapped presents waiting under the tree and all of them had his name on them. Each and every plane, from the gray T-6 Trainer to the silver Mustang, gleamed with loving attention and appreciation. Restoring them to pristine condition must have taken a lot of money, not to mention time to track down parts and put them back together. "I don't think I can." He turned to her. "Which one is your favorite?"

"That would be Betty Lou over there," she said, taking him to a Mustang painted a deep navy blue and giving the fuselage a loving pat. "Her records have her as shot down over Germany, and that's true, but I salvaged, restored and then transported her here. Hangar One has mostly biplanes, including a replica of the Red Baron's biplane. Hangar Three has a lot of jets and the like in it. I thought you might like these ladies the best."

"You're right," he breathed, trying to see all of them at once. "This is fantastic, Dusty. Even if we don't go up, this is one of the best things I can remember anyone doing for me."

"You're not getting control of the stick, Lance," she laughed, all but glowing with the praise. She pulled the chocks away and, deciding not to be lazy, put her back into it and gave the plane a push to get it out of the hangar. "Come on up. Let's see if we can get her to turn over."

"Something tells me that won't be a problem, Duster!" he answered and joined her. He was right and she kept her part of the deal and flew until they ran out of gas, showing off for him with loops, dives and barrel rolls, pretending there was a Japanese Zero on their six. Lance let himself see it as she did: flack burst all around them, as other planes, friend and enemy, exploded or crashed into the sea far below in a ball of fire. Heart pounding with fear and excitement, stomach clenching, he held his breath as bullets barely missed the left wing as she rolled, pulling up at the end, drawing the Zero up behind them.

They climbed higher and higher, the Zero right behind them. The sun was all but blocked out by smoke obscuring the canopy, but they held on until the Zero stalled out below them. With a smooth push on the stick, Dusty brought the nose of the Mustang down and sent the Zero crashing into the sea. "We need to land soon, Lance," Dusty called over her shoulder. "We'll probably run out of gas on the runway as it is."

"Can we do it again?" She laughed.

"Soon, Lance. My ladies will be here whenever we want to fly again."

"Promise?"

"That's a promise I'll have no trouble keeping," she answered with a mile-wide grin. As predicted, Betty Lou ran out of gas on the runway just before Dusty could kill the engine. Shaking her head, she shoved the canopy back, and looked over her shoulder at Lance. "Did you have fun?"

"Are you kidding? That was amazing, and I can't wait until we can do it again." He helped her push the plane back into the hangar. "I don't know if I can describe it, Dusty."

"Then don't try," she suggested with a chuckle, shoving the chocks into place. "It might just ruin the experience for you."

"I doubt anything could have, even running out of gas in midair would have been interesting."

"Terrifying, too," she laughed, giving the hangar doors a push to close them before locking them. She stopped, going still, at the look on Lance's face. It wasn't often that he wore the serious look, which made it all the more effective when he did. "What is it?"

"I don't know how to thank you for that," he told her, dipping his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket. "I haven't got the words for how much that meant to me." She looked away, watching the sun turn the sky to fire for a moment, before she turned back.

"You can't choose to love, Lance," she said quietly, "because it doesn't work like that. Once you do love, you love forever. You can't move countries, planets or even centuries and leave it behind; it stays with you, in your heart, your mind- it becomes a part of your soul. For all that I tried to avoid love through my long life, for the best and most logical of reasons, when it struck, I never turned my back on it or tried to walk away. For me, not walking away was harder, more frightening, than fighting any battle, but if there's one thing I've learned in all my years, it's that surrendering to love, to the demands of it, is the only road to real happiness.

"Love simply is," she continued, her eyes picking up the fading light and seeming to reflect it back thousands of times. "It's as simple, and as complicated, as that. It asks no permissions and has no restrictions. Acceptance is all that it asks, the only demand it makes, but it's an absolute one. You can either admit it into your heart or refuse it, but there's no other option."

"That probably the best description I've ever heard, Dusty." She chuckled a little.

"Experience counts for a lot sometimes."

"I guess," he answered, pulling his hands out of his pockets. "I was going to wait, but after that little speech . . ." He trailed off and shrugged. "You took the words right out of my mouth." He handed her the box he held in one hand. Stunned, she lifted the lid and her vision wavered as she looked down at the sapphire that seemed to grow out of the silver band. Eyes drenched, she looked back up at him, her mouth working with no sound coming out. "That shut you up," he chuckled, shooting her a cocky grin.

"Be quiet a minute, Lance," she murmured, blinking hard to clear her vision. She took a deep breath, and knew there were only one or two experiences that would even come close to this. "Does this mean what I think it means?"

"Sure does."

"You're sure about this?"

"Absolutely sure."

"All right, then," she said, nodding once. "It must be love, because I'd have to be an idiot to turn down an offer like this." He took the ring from the box and slid it on her left hand. She felt a little buzz of heat then a lovely spread of warmth where the silver circled her finger. "It's beautiful. It fits, too."

"It looks great on you, Dusty."

Earth: Big Sur Six Months Later 

"I never thought I'd see it, Nicolas," Gregori chuckled, shaking his head a little.

"See what?"

"The mighty Dusty's fall," he said, gesturing to where Dusty and Lance danced, so lost in each other's eyes that they could be completely alone in the room.

"It's a once in a lifetime opportunity, all right, my friend," Nicolas laughed, looking around the room. Lucian was charming Allura, and she was laughing at something he said. Keith stood nearby, conversing with Shang. Pidge and Hunk stood a little apart, Barack with them. Dayan propped up a wall across the ballroom, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, and Nicolas knew that he came only because Dusty has asked him. Even Julian had put in an appearance. More people danced or mingled, too many for Nicolas to count and more than he cared to. He knew Dusty had kept the wedding reception as small as possible for the mental stability of the NightWalkers, and those who couldn't leave were sent to the lower floors where the shielding was the thickest.

"How long do you think before she gives in and adopts Barack?"

"I hear it's already in the works," Julian broke in, joining them. "A little birdie told me it's all but final these days."

"That's some little birdie," Gregori replied, impressed. Other than Dusty, Julian was their best hacker. Everyone was taught the basics and if anyone showed an interest and an aptitude, they were taught more. "You amaze me sometimes, Julian."

"Thank you. We all have our talents."

"That's enough, Julian," Nicolas warned, sensing a fight. "Ruin today for Dusty, and she'll come down on both of you before you can take the first swing at each other."

"Only for Dusty, Nico," Julian agreed with a sigh.

"For Dusty," Gregori added grudgingly. "It's either do as you ask, or spend the rest of our lives cleaning the Peak from top to bottom and back."

"Wise decision," Nicolas answered, smiling as Barack cut in on Dusty and Lance. Scooping him up with a laugh, she twirled with him around the floor. Barack smiled and dropped his head to her shoulder. He agreed with Julian about those two. Other than the fact that she was one of the only ones that could control his outbursts, which had decreased over the last six months, little Barack had managed to charm his way into Dusty's heart. He honestly wished them the best of luck, and all happiness the universe had to offer.

"Well, don't prop up the walls all night, you two," Julian said, chuckling. "We may be a part of the night, but every now and again we have to move about in the daylight. Might as well get used to it, I suppose." With that, he wandered off, mingling his way across the ballroom.

"See you later, Julian."

**AN:** Well! That was interesting. That's the last chapter where Dusty and the NightWalkers are main characters. They'll pop up from time to time or be secondary characters, but I have _got_ to work on my novel for a while. Dusty's a favorite of mine and I don't think I'll leave her alone for too long. She'll probably start bugging me soon, in any case, but for now, she's on her honeymoon.


End file.
